B  6  R  K  E  I  E  Y\ 

LIBRARY    I 

UNIVERSITY  OF      I 
CALIfORNIA     J 


SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


Jo*e0/>     Alorr.5   ^^chejfer 


Songs  for  Fishermen 


COLLECTED  BY 


JOSEPH  MORRIS 


AND 

ST.  CLAIR  ADAMS 

Compilers  of  "IT  CAN  BE  DONE,"  « 


PUBLISHERS 

STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 

CINCINNATI 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 

STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

THE  CAXTON  PRESS 
"Everybody  for  books."    This  is  one  of  the  Interlaken  Library. 


So 


"They  say  fish  should  swim  thrice  .  .  .  first  it 
should  swim  in  the  sea  (do  you  mind  me?),  then  it 
should  swim  in  butter,  and  at  last,  sirrah,  it  should 
swim  in  good  claret." 

— Dean  Swift:  "Polite  Conversation"  (Dialogue  II). 


291 


INTRODUCTION 

The  love  for  fishing  is  universal.  The  small  boy  at 
school  who  pretends  to  be  studying  and  who  really 
is  proving  the  marvel  that  the  letters  in  preface  can 
represent  the  words  "Peter  Rogers  Eats  Fish,  Alli- 
gators Catch  Eels,"  soon  forgets  his  book  altogether. 
He  becomes  thrall  to  his  imagination;  his  fancy  trans- 
ports him  to  a  brookside  where  he  tempts  minnows 
and  achieves  happiness  with  a  bent  pin  and  a  can  of 
worms.  His  teacher,  austere  in  appearance,  may  at 
heart  be  subject  to  the  same  allurement;  a  popular 
exponent  of  the  cause  of  fishing  to-day  is  the  college 
professor,  the  literary  man,  the  diplomat,  Henry  Van 
Dyke.  The  great  actor,  in  his  turn,  loves  to  quit  the 
world  of  make-believe  for  the  realities  of  solitude  and 
the  angle;  witness  Joseph  Jefferson.  The  statesman 
finds  similar  relief  from  the  cares  of  state;  witness 
Grover  Cleveland  and  Viscount  Grey.  Butcher,  baker, 
and  candlestick  maker,  clerk,  clergyman,  and  capitalist 
—if  you  would  find  what,  beneath  the  hard  semblances 
of  them,  they  verily  are,  utter  the  cabalistic  words: 
"Let's  go  fishing." 

As  with  fishing,  so  with  fishermen ;  the  love  for  them 
too  is  universal.  "All  the  world  loves  a  lover,"  we  are 
told ;  and  yet  we  may  ask,  "Had  not  the  lover  best  look 
to  his  laurels?"  Whatever  else  you  may  say  of  him, 
he  is  not  a  comfortable  person  to  have  around.  But 

7 


8  INTRODUCTION 

when  Walton,  the  Father  of  Fishers,  tells  us  he  loves 
all  anglers,  he  gives  a  reason  why  that  love  endures: 
'They  be  such  honest,  civil,  quiet  men."  Is  not  the 
pronouncement  just?  Can  a  loud-mouthed  roisterer 
catch  fish?  Can  the  restless,  insubstantial  fellow  bring 
home  a  full  creel  ?  A  man's  very  devotion  to  the  sport 
is  a  badge  of  inward  merit.  And  to  this  inward  worth 
how  other  men  respond!  In  other  departments  of 
human  life  they  insist  on  externals;  the  rich  man  will 
not  hobnob  with  the  poor,  nor  the  scion  of  culture 
willingly  rub  elbows  with  the  son  of  toil.  But  for  fisher- 
men all  differences  are  sunk.  No  other  fellowship  is 
at  once  so  spontaneous  and  so  genuine  as  the  brother- 
hood of  rod  and  line. 

Fishing,  moreover,  is  no  sudden  fad  of  the  modern 
world  or  of  any  single  country  therein.  We  have  con- 
siderable evidence  that  the  Greeks  liked  fishing,  as 
indeed  so  human  and  alert  a  people  could  hardly  have 
helped  doing.  The  evidence  is  still  more  emphatic  in 
the  case  of  the  Romans.  As  for  the  Hebrews,  we  know 
from  the  story  of  Jonah  that  whether  or  not  in  those 
days  men  could  catch  fish,  it  was  possible  for  fish  to 
catch  men;  and  in  New  Testament  times  some  of  the 
disciples,  the  "fishers  of  men,"  had  previously  toiled 
with  actual  nets.  In  short  no  land,  occidental  or  ori- 
ental, torrid  or  frigid,  but  loves  fishing  and  has  its  own 
methods,  often  primitive  enough,  of  taking  finny  prey. 
England  and  Scotland  have  shown  exceptional  appre- 
ciation of  the  joys  of  angling,  and  exceptional  under- 
standing of  piscatorial  lore;  over  them  both  hangs,  in 
Shakespeare's  phrase,  "a  very  ancient  and  fish-like 


INTRODUCTION 


smell."  The  United  States  and  Canada  have  gone 
the  Old  World  one  better.  What  fish  have  not  moved 
and  lived  and  had  their  being  in  these  magical  cis- 
atlantic waters !  Prodigiously  talented  fish !  Did  not 
Franklin  assure  the  credulous  Europeans  there  is  no 
more  sublime  spectacle  in  nature  than  the  upward 
leap  of  a  whale  over  Niagara? 

To  the  curious,  the  romantic,  and  the  devout,  the 
fish  has  yet  another  interest — it  was  formerly  used  as 
a  symbol  of  Christ.  This  use  was  due  to  the  accident 
that  the  initials  of  the  Greek  names  and  titles  of  Jesus 
("Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God,  Savior")  spell  ichthys,  the 
Greek  word  for  fish. 

When  we  come  to  the  literature  of  fishing,  we  think 
unavoidably  of  Walton.  His  book,  perchance  in  an 
expensively  illustrated  edition,  lies  on  every  true  fish- 
erman's table.  It  is — after  the  lapse  of  nearly  three 
centuries — still  an  authority  on  the  general  princi- 
ples, and  even  on  many  of  the  details,  of  fishing.  Bet- 
ter still,  it  catches  and  reflects  the  cool,  serene  life  and 
spirit  of  the  angler  as  no  other  book  does  or  perhaps 
ever  shall.  What  shrewd  distinctions  are  drawn  by 
old  Izaak:  "Fishing  is  an  art,  or,  at  least,  it  is  an  art 
to  catch  fish."  What  love  of  nature's  delights  does  he 
show:  "Turn  out  of  the  way  a  little,  good  scholar, 
towards  yonder  high  honeysuckle  hedge;  there  we'll 
sit  and  sing,  whilst  this  shower  falls  so  gently  upon 
the  teeming  earth,  and  gives  yet  a  sweeter  smell  to  the 
lovely  flowers  that  adorn  these  verdant  meadows." 
What  honest  emulation  he  feels:  "I  envy  nobody  but 
him,  and  him  only,  that  catches  more  fish  than  I  do." 


10 INTRODUCTION 

What  enjoyment  he  finds  in  his  simple  recreation: 
'There  be  many  that  have  forty  times  our  estates, 
that  would  give  the  greatest  part  of  it  to  be  healthful 
and  cheerful  like  us;  who,  with  the  expense  of  a  little 
money,  have  eat  and  drank,  and  laughed,  and  angled, 
and  sung,  and  slept  securely;  and  rose  next  day  and 
cast  away  care,  and  sung,  and  laughed,  and  angled 
again."  What  humble  contentment  informs  his  daily 
life:  "We  may  say  of  angling,  as  Dr.  Boteler  said  of 
strawberries,  'Doubtless  God  could  have  made  a  better 
berry,  but  doubtless  God  never  did' ;  and  so,  if  I  might 
be  judge,  God  never  did  make  a  more  calm,  quiet, 
innocent  recreation  than  angling."  The  Cavaliers  of 
seventeenth  century  England  have  often  been  traduced ; 
but  judgment  must  many  a  time  have  been  softened 
because  this  loved  and  lovable  "brother  of  the  angle" 
was  of  the  Cavalier  party.  Walton  was  very  long  of 
life,  as  all  good  anglers  should  be,  and  his  spirit  yet 
lingers  among  us.  He  is  not  simply  a  man;  he  is  an 
institution. 

Walton  was  primarily  a  writer  of  prose,  but  in 
poetry  also  fishing  is  the  best  represented  of  all  sports 
— a  fact  due,  not  to  any  one  man,  but  to  a  legion.  A 
clue  to  this  laudation  in  verse  is  supplied  by  old  Izaak's 
words:  "Angling  is  somewhat  like  poetry,  men  are  to 
be  born  so."  More  specifically,  the  affinity  between 
fishing  and  the  poetic  temperament  lies  partly  in  the 
fact  that  fishing  leads  us  among  the  charms  and  won- 
ders of  nature.  Again,  it  is  a  meditative  sport,  and 
instead  of  interfering  with  the  spirit  of  quietude,  in- 
duces it.  Thus  many  of  the  men  who  have  fished  have 


INTRODUCTION 11 

also  written  poetry.  Naturally,  they  have  now  and 
again  chosen  the  theme  that  lies  nearest  their  heart. 
Fishing  poems  are,  in  consequence,  innumerable. 

This  volume  brings  together  the  best  and  most  rep- 
resentative of  these  poems.  The  prodigious  amount 
of  fishing  verse  available  has  led,  inevitably,  to  regret- 
table omissions.  To  begin  with,  all  verse  not  written 
in  English,  however  excellent  in  itself  or  well  trans- 
lated, has  been  denied  reproduction  in  these  pages. 
Moreover  many  poems  of  fine  flavor  by  Somerville, 
Hogg,  Doubleday,  Dennys,  and  Foster  (to  mention 
only  a  few  of  the  better-known  fishing-bards) ;  all  ex- 
cerpts from  the  "Fishers'  Garland,"  published  annu- 
ally for  years  at  Edinburgh,  and  from  the  volume  of 
"Edinburgh  Angling  Club  Songs" ;  all  parodies  (though 
many  are  notably  clever);  all  mere  doggerel;  and  all 
narrowly  local  poems  or  pieces  for  specific  occasions 
(as  for  club  celebrations  or  in  honor  of  some  famous 
fisherman) — these  have  had  to  be  debarred.  In  fact 
the  editors,  after  examining,  piece  by  piece,  almost 
the  entire  corpus  of  fishing  verse  extant,  faced  the  still 
harder  task  of  making  exclusions.  They  hardened 
their  hearts  to  hundreds  of  "pretty  good"  poems  on 
the  theory,  as  a  wit  once  expressed  it,  that  "a  pretty 
good  poem  is  like  a  pretty  good  egg."  They  admitted 
nothing  that  failed  to  measure  up  to  one  or  the  other 
of  two  standards  of  merit :  ( i )  literary  distinction,  (2) 
felicitous  or  effective  embodiment  of  some  special 
aspect  of  fishing.  Even  so,  they  were  forced  to  shut 
out  many  poems  that  had  won  to  the  very  threshold 
of  acceptance.  But  they  have  the  satisfaction  of  feel- 


12  INTRODUCTION 

ing  that  they  have  spared  no  pains  to  compile  the  best 
possible  anthology  for  anglers. 

Since  they  could  not  make  the  volume — save  in  a 
limited  sense — inclusive,  they  resolved  it  should  show, 
not  only  real  merit,  but  the  utmost  variety.  To  this 
end  they  have  apportioned  space  with  jealous  care. 
They  have  naturally  been  most  liberal  to  Stoddart, 
"the  Fisher  Laureate,"  because  his  poems  live  fishing 
and  reflect,  more  completely  than  any  other  writer's, 
its  manifold  spirit.  They  have  levied  heavily  upon  the 
English  and  Scotch  bards  with  poems  by  Shakespeare, 
Wordsworth,  Scott,  Donne,  Pope,  Thomson,  Gay, 
Keats,  Hood,  Kingsley,  Praed,  Lang,  and  Rupert 
Brooke,  and  more  heavily  upon  those  of  the  United 
States  with  poems  by  Whittier,  Holmes,  Riley,  Van 
Dyke,  Eugene  Field,  Edgar  Guest,  Walt  Mason,  John 
Kendrick  Bangs,  Frank  L.  Stanton,  Douglas  Malloch, 
James  W.  Foley,  Grantland  Rice,  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox, 
and  Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar.  Readers  of  fishing  mag- 
azines will  be  pleased  to  find  such  favorite  writers  are 
Robert  Page  Lincoln,  William  E.  Elliott,  George  B. 
Staff,  George  W.  Sears,  and  Sam  S.  Stinson. 

The  editors  have  tried  to  represent  practically  all 
phases  of  fishing  and  all  sections  of  the  country.  To 
the  trout,  salmon,  and  bass,  as  favorite  game  fish,  they 
have  accorded  space  commensurate  with  popularity. 
Nor  have  they  been  so  obtuse  as  to  ignore  the  by- 
products of  fishing,  as  delight  in  nature,  in  the  calm 
of  vast  forest  stretches,  and  in  the  nocturnal  gather- 
ings and  diversions  of  anglers. 

The  editors  gratefully  acknowledge  the  permissions 


INTRODUCTION 13 

extended  them  to  reproduce  poems  under  copyright. 
Specifically  they  wish  to  express  their  gratitude  to  J. 
A.  Cruikshank  of  "The  American  Angler,"  E.  F.  War- 
ner and  Hy.  S.  Watson  of  "Field  and  Stream,"  William 
Bruette  and  John  P.  Holman  of  "Forest  and  Stream," 
Albert  Bntt  of  "Outing  Magazine,"  and  W.  J.  Taylor 
and  C.  V.  Latham  of  "Rod  and  Gun  in  Canada,"  who 
by  their  conspicuous  generosity  and  helpful  co-opera- 
tion have  greatly  contributed  to  whatever  merit  this 
book  may  possess. 

For  the  convenience  of  the  reader,  literary  refer- 
ences and  Scotch  words  are  explained  by  notes  at  the 
back  of  the  book. 


INDEX  BY  TITLES 

ANGLER,  THE ScoUard 253 

ANGLER,  THE Wade 211 

ANGLER,  THE Walton 31 

ANGLER'S  AWAKENING,  THE Lincoln 203 

ANGLER'S  BALLAD,  THE Cotton 68 

ANGLER'S  BENEDICTION,  THE Stoddart 96 

ANGLER'S  CAROL,  THE Foster 89 

ANGLER'S  CHANT,  THE McLellan 47 

ANGLER'S  CONTENTMENT,  THE Fletcher 191 

ANGLER'S  DELECTATION,  THE Dennys 146 

ANGLER'S  DELIGHT,  THE Houston 298 

ANGLER'S  DREAM  OF  SPRING,  THE Brown 58 

ANGLER'S  FAREWELL,  THE Hood 1 50 

ANGLER'S  GRAVE,  AN Stoddart 308 

ANGLER'S  INVITATION,  THE Stoddart 23 

ANGLER'S  POSSESSIONS,  THE Houston 170 

ANGLER'S  PRAYER,  THE Wiborn 294 

ANGLER'S  QUESTION,  THE Kingsley 26 

ANGLER'S  REVEILLE,  THE Van  Dyke.  ...   28 

ANGLER'S  SONG,  THE Basse 295 

ANGLER'S  SONG,  THE Dexter 276 

ANGLER'S  SONNET,  AN Lincoln 286 

ANGLER'S  TOAST,  THE Jeffries 283 

ANGLER'S  TRYSTING-TREE,  THE Stoddart 58 

ANGLER'S  VINDICATION,  THE Stoddart 259 

ANGLER'S  WISH,  THE Walton 226 

ANGLING Doubleday ....   74 

ANGLING Fisher 78 

ANGLING Pope 248 

ANGLING  REVERIES Ward 233 

APPEAL  FROM  OUR  FINNY  FRIENDS,  AN Bracken 206 

APRIL  ON  TWEED Lang 1 28 

AT  BROAD  RIPPLE Riley 26 

BAIT,  THE Donne 91 

BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN,  THE Holmes 292 

BALLADE  OF  THE  BASS,  THE ' .Anonymous.  . . 232 

BALLADE  OF  THE  GAMEFISH Rice 43 

15 


16  INDEX  BY  TITLES 

BALLADE  OF  THE  FALSE  AND  THE  TRUE Stinson 281 

BIG-MOUTH  BLACK  BASS,  THE Mather 259 

BLACK-BASS-FISHING  IN  WESTERN  STREAMS.  .McLellan 191 

BLUEFISH,  THE McLellan 240 

BLUE-NOSED  WORM,  THE Mackie 67 

BONNIE  TWEED,  THE Stoddart 228 

BONNY  TWEED  FOR  ME!   THE Foster 223 

BOY  AND  His  DAD,  A Guest 81 

BOY  ANGLER,  THE McLellan 97 

BOY'S  SONG,  A Hogg 198 

BRING  THE  ROD,  THE  LINE,  THE  REEL! Stoddart 274 

BROOK,  THE Tennyson 1 25 

BROOK  TROUT,  THE McGaffey 221 

BY  THE  STREAM O'Brien 1 88 

CALL  OF  THE  STREAM,  THE Crandall 1 54 

CASTIN' Willis 174 

CHANGE  OF  BAIT,  A McCrea 54 

CHANNEL  BASS  FISHING Simmons 237 

CLAM  MAN,  THE Gushing 235 

COACHMAN,  THE Isys 134 

CONUNDRUM  OF  THE  AGES,  THE Sharpe 90 

COROMANDEL  FlSHERS Naidu 74 

DARKY'S  RAINY  DAY Dunbar 38 

DOWN  AROUND  THE  RIVER Riley 1 36 

DYING  FISHERMAN,  THE Mason 42 

EEL-SPEARING  BY  TORCHLIGHT McLellan 284 

FATE  OF  THE  FATUOUS  FISHERMAN Carry/ 287 

FIRST  FISHERMAN,  THE Chalmers 113 

FIRST  WORM,  THE Anonymous .  . .  222 

FISH Hunt 113 

FISH,  THE.  .      Brooke 141 

FISH  Is  COIN  TO  BITE Hillel 218 

FISH  STORIES Morris 84 

FISHER  ONCE  WAS  I,  A Parker 200 

FISHER'S  CALL,  THE Chatto 207 

FISHER'S  JOY,  THE Fletcher 292 

FISHER'S  WELCOME,  THE Doubleday ....  214 

FISHERMAN,  THE Drayton 194 

FISHERMAN,  THE Guest 133 

FISHERMAN,  THE Scollard 190 

FISHERMAN  IN  TOWN,  A Stanton 1 79 

FISHERMAN'S  FEAST,  THE Field 33 


INDEX  BY  TITLES 17 

FISHERMAN'S  LIGHT,  THE Moodie 1 67 

FISHERMAN'S  PETITION,  A Judd 79 

FISHERMEN,  THE Whittier 210 

FISHERMEN  MEND  THEIR  NETS,  THE Malloch 78 

FISHERMEN  THREE Adams 59 

FISHIN' Bangs 44 

FISHIN' Wilbur 254 

FISHIN'  TIME Lincoln 1 52 

FISHIN'  TIME Peck 268 

FISHIN'  WITH  AN  OLD  BAMBOO Shaw 275 

FISHING Burt 71 

FISHING Gay 114 

FISHING McGaffey 196 

FISHING Malloch 309 

FISHING Mason 80 

FISHING Mitchell 197 

FISHING Somerville 1 89 

FISHING Van  de  Water .  289 

FISHING Wilcox. 46 

FISHING  CURE,  THE Guest 315 

FISHING  HOLE,  THE Malloch 41 

FISHING  Is  FINE  WHEN  THE  POOL  Is  MUDDY  . .  Praed 1 59 

FISHING  LINES Adams 166 

FISHING  NOOKS Guest 217 

FISHING  OUTFIT,  THE Guest 260 

FISHING-PARTY,  THE Riley 314 

FISHING  SONG Putnam 205 

FLY  CASTING Staff 168 

FRESH  RUN Cochrane 56 

GIVE  ME  MINE  ANGLE Shakespeare. . .  64 

GOOD  FISHING Phillips 119 

HAMPSHIRE  FLY-FISHING Isys 101 

HAPPY  ANGLER,  THE Stoddart 1 29 

HIDDEN  POOL,  THE Ross 140 

Ho,  FOR  THE  KANKAKEE! Thompson ....  234 

HOLY- WELL  POOL,  THE Stoddart 164 

HONEST  ANGLER,  THE Cotton 99 

How  MEN  LIVE Shakespeare. . .  65 

IN  SUMMER Kerr 302 

IN  TROUTING  TIME Bangs 130 

INVETERATE  ANGLER,  THE Johnson 191 

INVITATION,  THE Kingsley 121 

I  WANT  TO  Go  FISHING  TO-DAY '.Shea 139 

IZAAK  WALTON'S  PRAYER James 139 

2 


18 INDEX  BY  TITLES 

JUST  A  CHANCE — THAT'S  ALL Anonymous.  . . 243 

JUST  KEEP  FISHIN' Dean 157 

KEEP  FISHIN' Rose 256 

KETCHIN'  PICK'REL Jeffries 106 

KING  AND  KID Mason 193 

KING  OF  THE  BROOK Kingsford 137 

LAD  AND  THE  DAD,  THE Foley 36 

LAST  CAST,  THE Lang 264 

LAY  OF  THE  LEA,  A Westwood 244 

LEVEN  WATER Smollett 258 

LONG  ISLAND  TROUT,  THE Hawes 55 

MICHIGAN  AGAIN Malloch 238 

MODERN  SPORT Adams 144 

Music  OF  THE  REEL,  THE Isys 48 

MY  BEST  KENTUCKY  REEL Buckham 60 

MY  FAVORITE  BOOK O'Connell 62 

MY  LADY  FISHES Getchell 185 

NORTH  COUNTRY  FLY-FISHING Isys 103 

OFF  TO  THE  FISHING  GROUND Montgomery. . .  297 

OLD  ANGLER'S  DREAM,  THE Elliott 184 

OLD  HOME  HAUNTS,  THE Clarke. .......  201 

OLD  MILL  BY  THE  RIVER,  THE McLellan 277 

OLD  SONG,  AN Anonymous ...  194 

ON  A  BANK  As  I  SATE  A-FISHING Wotton 206 

ON  A  RIVER  BANK  So  GREEN Stanton 35 

ON  ETTRICK  FOREST'S  MOUNTAINS  DUN Scott 186 

ON  THE  HOOK Adams 242 

OUR  BIGGEST  FISH Field 311 

OUT  FISHIN' Guest 24 

PISCATOR,  DON'T  BRAG Osborne 303 

PLEASANT'ST  ANGLING,  THE Shakespeare. . .   64 

POMPANO  OF  FLORIDA,  THE McLellan 219 

POOR  FEESH  ! Appleton 51 

PROTEST  OF  THE  BROOK  TROUT Hallock 307 

REAL  BAIT,  THE Guest 178 

RHYME  OF  LITTLE  FISHES,  A Gilman 146 

"RISE,"  A McGaffey 302 

RIVER,  THE Stoddart 1 72 

RONDEAU Newberry 125 


INDEX  BY  TITLES 19 

SAINT  PATRICK Blakey 285 

SALMON Sage 85 

SALMON,  THE Isys 279 

SALMON  FISHERMAN,  THE Greenwood.  .  . . 255 

SALMON  FLY,  THE Keene 92 

SALMON  OF  LABRADOR McLellan 305 

SALMON  RUN,  THE Foster 161 

SEA-TROUT  GREY,  THE Stoddart 239 

SMALL-MOUTH  BLACK  BASS,  THE Mather 258 

SONG Stoddart 132 

SONG  OF  THE  ROD  AND  REEL,  THE Brewer 123 

SONG  OF  THE  RUNNING  REEL,  THE Aiken 241 

SPEARING Street 168 

SPECKLED  TROUT,  THE Cawein 148 

SPORT  ROYAL Hundley 99 

SPRING Thomson 1 74 

SPRING  FEVER Malloch 1 20 

SPRING  Is  ON  THE  WIRE Morris 180 

STRIPED  BASS,  THE McLellan 225 

STRIPED  BASS  CRANK,  THE Cawthorne ....  299 

SUMMER  ON  THAMES Bridges 1 58 

TAKING  OF  THE  SALMON,  THE Stoddart 246 

THAT  TROUT Sears 249 

THEY  WENT  A-FISHING Anonymous ...  145 

THREE  FISHERS,  THE Kingsley 86 

To  A  FISH  OF  THE  BROOK Wolcot 80 

To  AN  OLD  FRIEND Chalmers 66 

To  A  TROUT Montague 304 

To  MY  DEAR  AND  MOST  WORTHY  FRIEND, 

MR.  IZAAK  WALTON Cotton 262 

To  MY  DEAR  BROTHER  IZAAK  WALTON Floud 263 

To  MY  TROUT  ROD Douglas 105 

To  THE  IMMORTAL  MEMORY  OF  THE  HALIBUT 

ON  WHICH  I  DINED  THIS  DAY Cowper 83 

To  THE  OCCASIONAL  ANGLER Leggo 75 

TROLLING  SONG Stoddart 65 

TROUT,  THE Isys 230 

TROUT  BROOK,  THE Waring 107 

TROUT  FISHING Connolly 270 

TROUT  FISHER'S  PLEASURES,  THE Westwood 289 

TROUTING Trowbridge 250 

TROUT  SEASON  WIDOW,  THE Malloch 173 

UNATTAINABLE,  THE Chalmers 212 

UP  AND  DOWN  OLD  BRANDYWINE Riley 109 


20  INDEX  BY  TITLES 

VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER Holmes 266 

WALTON'S  "COMPLEAT  ANGLER" Westwood 136 

WATCHING  THE  MINNOWS Keats 270 

WAYS  OF  THE  FISHERMAN,  THE Bunyan 119 

WE'VE  ALL  SEEN  HIM Smith 199 

WHAT  BOTHERS  HIM Stanton 192 

WHEN  A  BASS  GETS  ON  MY  LINE Allen 94 

WHEN  JENNY  COME  ALONG Stanton 84 

WHEN  THE  FISH  BEGIN  TO  BITE Stinson 1 56 

WHEN  THE  FISHING  BOATS  Go  OUT Montgomery. .  .   87 

WHEN  THE  FISHIN'  POLE  Is  NODDIN' Stanton 311 

WHEN  THIS  OLD  ROD  WAS  NEW McLellan 1 59 

WHEN  TULIPS  BLOOM Van  Dyke 1 26 

WHEN  You Woodruff 50 

WHERE  THE  REDEYES  BITE Staff 177 

WICKED  FISHERMAN,  THE Browne 124 

WINDING  STREAM,  THE Dublin 131 

WITH  ROD  AND  REEL Rose 183 

WORM-FISHING Browne 227 

WRITTEN  UPON  A  BLANK  LEAF  IN  "THE  COM- 
PLEAT ANGLER" Wordsworth  ...157 

YELLOW  FINS  o'  YARROW,  THE Stoddart 216 

YE  WARDERS  OF  THE  WATERS.  .  .  .Stoddart 208 


SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


THE  ANGLER'S  INVITATION 

Come  when  the  leaf  comes,  angle  with  me, 
Come  when  the  bee  hums  over  the  lea, 

Come  with  the  wild  flowers — 

Come  with  the  mild  showers — 
Come  when  the  singing  bird  calleth  for  thee! 

Then  to  the  stream  side  gladly  we'll  hie, 
Where  the  grey  trout  glide  silently  by; 

Or  in  some  still  place 

Over  the  hill  face 
Hurrying  onward,  drop  the  light  fly. 

Then,  when  the  dew  falls,  homeward  we'll  speed 
To  our  own  loved  walls  down  on  the  mead, 

There,  by  the  bright  hearth, 

Holding  our  night  mirth, 

We'll  drink  to  sweet  friendship  in  need  and  in  deed. 
— Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


24  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

OUT  FISHIN' 

A  feller  isn't  thinkin'  mean, 

Out  fishin' ; 
His  thoughts  are  mostly  good  an'  clean, 

Out  fishin'. 

He  doesn't  knock  his  fellow  men, 
Or  harbor  any  grudges  then; 
A  feller's  at  his  finest  when 

Out  fishin'. 

The  rich  are  comrades  to  the  poor, 

Out  fishin' ; 
All  brothers  of  the  common  lure, 

Out  fishin'. 

The  urchin  with  the  pin  an'  string 
Can  chum  with  millionaire  an'  king; 
Vain  pride  is  a  forgotten  thing, 

Out  fishin'. 

A  feller  gits  a  chance  to  dream, 

Out  fishin' ; 
He  learns  the  beauties  of  a  stream, 

Out  fishin' ; 

An'  he  can  wash  his  soul  in  air 
That  isn't  foul  with  selfish  care, 
An'  relish  plain  and  simple  fare, 

Out  fishin'. 

A  feller  has  no  time  fer  hate, 
Out  fishin' ; 


OUT  FISHIN'  25 


He  isn't  eager  to  be  great, 

Out  fishin'. 

He  isn't  thinkin'  thoughts  of  pelf, 
Or  goods  stacked  high  upon  a  shelf, 
But  he  is  always  just  himself, 

Out  fishin'. 

A  feller's  glad  to  be  a  friend, 

Out  fishin' ; 
A  helpin'  hand  he'll  always  lend, 

Out  fishin'. 

The  brotherhood  of  rod  an'  line 
An'  sky  and  stream  is  always  fine; 
Men  come  real  close  to  God's  design, 

Out  fishin'. 

A  feller  isn't  plotting  schemes, 

Out  fishin' ; 
He's  only  busy  with  his  dreams, 

Out  fishin'. 

His  livery  is  a  coat  of  tan, 
His  creed — to  do  the  best  he  can; 
A  feller's  always  mostly  man, 

Out  fishin'. 

—Edgar  A.  Guest. 

From  "The  Path  to  Home."    Copyrighted  by  and  permission  from  Reilly 
&  Lee  Co. 


26  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  ANGLER'S  QUESTION 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say,  green  leaves, 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say: 
But  I  know  that  there  is  a  spirit  in  you, 

And  a  word  in  you  this  day. 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say,  rosy  rocks, 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say: 
But  I  know  that  there  is  a  spirit  in  you, 

And  a  word  in  you  this  day. 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say,  brown  streams, 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say: 
But  I  know  that  in  you  too  a  spirit  doth  live, 

And  a  word  doth  speak  this  day. 

— Charles  Kingsley 


AT  BROAD  RIPPLE 

Ah,  Luxury!    Beyond  the  heat 
And  dust  of  town,  with  dangling  feet, 
Astride  the  rock  below  the  dam, 
In  the  cool  shadows  where  the  calm 
Rests  on  the  stream  again,  and  all 
Is  silent  save  the  waterfall, — 
I  bait  my  hook  and  cast  my  line, 
And  feel  the  best  of  life  is  mine. 

No  high  ambition  may  I  claim — 

I  angle  not  for  lordly  game 

Of  trout,  or  bass,  a  wary  bream — 


AT  BROAD  RIPPLE 27 

A  black  perch  reaches  the  extreme 
Of  my  desires;  and  "goggle-eyes" 
Are  not  a  thing  that  I  despise; 
A  sunfish,  or  a  "chub,"  or  "cat" — 
A  "silver-side" — yea,  even  that! 

In  eloquent  tranquillity 
The  waters  lisp  and  talk  to  me. 
Sometimes,  far  out,  the  surface  breaks, 
As  some  proud  bass  an  instant  shakes 
His  glittering  armor  in  the  sun, 
And  romping  ripples,  one  by  one, 
Come  dallying  across  the  space 
Where  undulates  my  smiling  face. 

The  river's  story  flowing  by, 
Forever  sweet  to  ear  and  eye, 
Forever  tenderly  begun — 
Forever  new  and  never  done. 
Thus  lulled  and  sheltered  in  a  shade 
Where  never  feverish  cares  invade, 
I  bait  my  hook  and  cast  my  line, 
And  feel  the  best  of  life  is  mine. 

—James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

From  the  Biographical  Edition  of  the  Complete  Works  of  James  Whitcomb 
Riley,  copyright,  1913.    Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The 


28  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


THE  ANGLER'S  REVEILLE 

What  time  the  rose  of  dawn  is  laid  across  the  lips  of 

night, 
And  all  the  little  watchman-stars  have  fallen  asleep  in 

light; 
'Tis  then  a  merry  wind  awakes,  and  runs  from  tree  to 

tree, 
And  borrows  words  from  all  the  birds  to  sound  the 

reveille. 

This  is  the  carol  the  Robin  throws 

Over  the  edge  of  the  valley; 
Listen  how  boldly  it  flows, 

Sally  on  sally: 

Tirra-lirra, 
Early  morn, 
New  born! 
Day  is  near, 
Clear,  clear. 
Down  the  river 
All  a-quiver, 
Fish  are  breaking- 
Time  for  waking. 
Tup,  tuff,  tup! 
Do  you  hear? 
All  clear — 
Wake  up! 


THE  ANGLER'S  REVEILLE  29 

The  phantom  flood  of  dreams  has  ebbed  and  vanished 
with  the  dark, 

And  like  a  dove  the  heart  forsakes  the  prison  of  the  ark; 

Now  forth  she  fares  thro'  friendly  woods  and  diamond- 
fields  of  dew, 

While  every  voice  cries  out,  "Rejoice!"  as  if  the  world 
were  new. 

This  is  the  ballad  the  Bluebird  sings, 

Unto  his  mate  replying, 
Shaking  the  tune  from  his  wings 

While  he  is  flying: 

Surely,  surely,  surely 

Life  is  dear 

Even  here. 

Blue  above, 

You  to  love, 
Purely,  purely,  purely. 

There's  wild  azalea  on  the  hill,  and  iris  down  the  dell, 
And  just  one  spray  of  lilac  still  abloom  beside  the  well ; 
The  columbine  adorns  the  rocks,  the  laurel  buds  grow 

pink, 
Along  the  stream  white  arums  gleam,  and  violets  bend 

to  drink. 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Yellowthroat, 

Fluttering  gaily  beside  you; 
Hear  how  each  voluble  note 

Offers  to  guide  you : 


30  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Which  way,  sir? 
I  say,  sir, 
Let  me  teach  you: 
I  beseech  you! 
Are  you  wishing 
Jolly  fishing? 
This  way,  sir! 
ril  teach  you. 

Then  come,  my  friend,  forget  your  foes,  and  leave  your 

fears  behind, 
And  wander  forth  to  try  your  luck,  with  cheerful, 

quiet  mind; 
For  be  your  fortune  great  or  small,  you'll  take  what 

God  may  give, 
And  all  the  day  your  heart  shall  say,  "Tis  luck  enough 

to  live." 

This  is  the  song  the  Brown  Thrush  flings 

Out  of  his  thicket  of  roses; 
Hark  how  it  bubbles  and  rings, 

Mark  how  it  closes: 

Luck,  luck, 
What  luck? 
Good  enough  for  me, 
7'm  alive,  you  see! 
Sun  shining, 
No  repining; 
Never  borrow 
Idle  sorrow; 


THE  ANGLER  31 


Drop  it! 
Cover  it  up! 
Hold  your  cup! 
Joy  will  fill  it, 
Dorit  spill  it, 
Steady,  be  ready, 
Good  luck! 

— Henry  Van  Dyke. 

From  "Poems  of  Henry  Van  Dyke."    Copyright,  1911,  1920,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.    By  permission  of  the  publishers. 


THE  ANGLER 

Oh!  the  gallant  fisher's  life, 

It  is  the  best  of  any; 
'Tis  full  of  pleasure,  void  of  strife, 
And  'tis  beloved  by  many: 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys, 
Only  this 
Lawful  is; 
For  our  skill 
Breeds  no  ill, 
But  content  and  pleasure. 

In  a  morning  up  we  rise, 
Ere  Aurora's  peeping: 
Drink  a  cup  to  wash  our  eyes, 
Leave  the  sluggard  sleeping: 
Then  we  go 
To  and  fro, 


32  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

With  our  knacks 
At  our  backs, 
To  such  streams 
As  the  Thames, 
If  we  have  the  leisure. 


When  we  please  to  walk  abroad 

For  our  recreation, 
In  the  fields  is  our  abode, 
Full  of  delectations : 

Where  in  a  brook 

With  a  hook, 

Or  a  lake, 

Fish  we  take; 

There  we  sit, 

For  a  bit, 
Till  we  fish  entangle. 

We  have  gentles  in  a  horn, 

We  have  paste  and  worms  too; 
We  can  watch  both  night  and  morn 
Suffer  rain  and  storms  too; 
None  do  here 
Use  to  swear, 
Oaths  do  fray 
Fish  away; 
We  sit  still, 
And  watch  our  quill ; 
Fishers  must  not  wrangle. 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  FEAST  33 

If  the  sun's  excessive  heat 
Make  our  bodies  swelter, 
To  an  osier-hedge  we  get 
For  a  friendly  shelter; 

Where  in  a  dyke 

Perch  or  pike, 

Roach  or  dace, 

We  do  chase, 

Bleak  or  gudgeon 

Without  grudging; 
We  are  still  contented. 

Or  we  sometimes  pass  an  hour 

Under  a  green  willow 
That  defends  us  from  a  shower, 
Making  earth  our  pillow ; 
Where  we  may 
Think  and  pray, 
Before  death 
Stops  our  breath: 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys, 
And  to  be  lamented. 
•Izaak  Walton  ('John  Chalkhiir). 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  FEAST 

Of  all  the  gracious  gifts  of  Spring, 

Is  there  another  can  surpass 
This  delicate,  voluptuous  thing, — 

This  dapple-green,  plump-shouldered  bass? 


34  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Upon  a  damask  napkin  laid, 

What  exhalations  superfine 
Our  gustatory  nerves  pervade, 

Provoking  quenchless  thirsts  for  wine ! 

The  ancients  loved  this  noble  fish; 

And,  coming  from  the  kitchen  fire 
All  piping  hot  upon  a  dish, 

What  raptures  did  he  not  inspire  ? 
"Fish  should  swim  twice,"  they  used  to  say,- 

Once  in  their  native,  vapid  brine, 
And  then  again,  a  better  way — 

You  understand ;  fetch  on  the  wine ! 

Ah,  dainty  monarch  of  the  flood, 

How  often  have  I  cast  for  you, 
How  often  sadly  seen  you  scud 

Where  weeds  and  water-lilies  grew ! 
How  often  have  you  filched  my  bait, 

How  often  snapped  my  treacherous  line! 
Yet  here  I  have  you  on  this  plate,— 

You  shall  swim  twice,  and  now  in  wine. 

And  harkee,  gargon !  let  the  blood 

Of  cobwebbed  years  be  spilled  for  him, — 
Ay,  in  a  rich  Burgundian  flood 

This  piscatorial  pride  should  swim; 
So,  were  he  living,  he  would  say 

He  gladly  died  for  me  and  mine, 
And,  as  it  were  his  native  spray, 

He'd  lash  the  sauce — what,  ho !  the  wine ! 


ON  A  RIVER  BANK  SO  GREEN  35 

I  would  it  were  ordained  for  me 

To  share  your  fate,  O  finny  friend ! 
I  surely  were  not  loath  to  be 

Reserved  for  such  a  noble  end ; 
For  when  old  Chronos,  gaunt  and  grim, 

At  last  reels  in  his  ruthless  line, 
What  were  my  ecstasy  to  swim 

In  wine,  in  wine,  in  glorious  wine! 

Well,  here's  a  health  to  you,  sweet  Spring! 

And,  prithee,  whilst  I  stick  to  earth, 
Come  hither  every  year  and  bring 

The  boons  provocative  of  mirth ; 
And  should  your  stock  of  bass  run  low, 

However  much  I  might  repine, 
I  think  I  might  survive  the  blow, 

If  plied  with  wine  and  still  more  wine! 

— Eugene  Field. 

From  "Poems  of  Eugene  Field."  Copyright,  1910,  by  Julia  S.  Field.  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 

ON  A  RIVER  BANK  SO  GREEN 

I  sorter  look  away  off, 

Where  the  sky  is  all  serene, 
An'  I  want  to  take  a  day  off 

On  a  river  bank  so  green. 

Fish,  fish,  fish, 
An'  the  line  a-goin'  "Swish!" 
(Oh,  the  perch  is  sich  a  beauty 
When  he's  fried  an'  in  the  dish !) 


36 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  trees  like  big  umbrellas, 
Hide  the  hot  sun  from  yer  view — 

Dip  their  green  leaves  in  the  river, 
Till  they  drip  with  crystal  dew ! 

Fish,  fish,  fish, 
An'  the  line  a-goin'  "Swish!" 
(Oh,  the  perch  just  fits  the  palate, 
When  he's  fried  an'  in  the  dish !) 

So  I  sorter  look  away  off, 

Where  the  river  bank  I  see; 
An'  the  Wind  says:    'Take  a  day  off, 

An'  go  loafin'  roun'  with  me!" 

Fish,  fish,  fish, 

An'  the  line  a-goin'  "Swish!" 
(Oh,  the  perch  he  is  just  so  purty 
When  he's  fried  an'  in  the  dish !) 

— Frank  L.  Stanton. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 

THE  LAD  AND  THE  DAD 

My  friend,  Johnny  Jones,  once  played  hookey  from 
school, 

(A  quite  reprehensible  thing!) 
In  plain  contradiction  of  precept  and  rule, 

(A  most  inexcusable  thing !) 
Played  hookey  with  many  a  sly,  backward  look, 
Till  he  found  him  a  seat  by  the  bank  of  the  brook, 
Where  he  skilfully  wriggled  a  worm  on  a  hook, 

(A  most  inexcusable  thing!) 


THE  LAD  AND  THE  DAD 37 

His  desk  was  deserted,  his  slate  lay  there  spurned, 

(A  clearly  intolerable  thing!) 
His  books  all  unread  and  his  lessons  unlearned, 

(A  quite  impermissible  thing!) 

He  fished  with  some  qualms  when  he  thought  of  his  sin, 
And  the  schoolroom  where  properly  he  should  have 

been 
But  Oh,  what  his  joy  when  he  drew  a  fish  in ! 

(A  terrible,  terrible  thing!) 

My  friend,  Johnny  Jones,  smelled  of  fish  at  the  eve, 

(Quite  truly  a  dangerous  thing !) 
There  was  mud  on  his  trousers  and  some  on  his  sleeve, 

(A  quite  unexplainable  thing!) 
So  when  he  got  home  Father  Jones  crisply  said : 
"I'll  see  you  a  minute  or  two  in  the  shed," 
And  he  whipped  Johnny  soundly  and  put  him  to  bed, 

(A  parentally  admirable  thing!) 

My  friend,  Jones  the  elder,  one  hot  Summer  day, 

(A  natural,  natural  thing,) 
Pulled  down  his  desk-top,  put  his  papers  away, 

(A  very  explainable  thing,) 
And  said  as  he  pulled  his  desk  shut  with  a  jerk: 
"I'm  off  for  some  place  where  the  game  fishes  lurk, 
I'm  blessed  if  this  life  should  be  made  just  for  work!" 

(A  really  quite  sensible  thing.) 

So  he  left  all  his  books  and  his  papers  and  bills, 

(You'll  agree  an  excusable  thing,) 
And  took  himself  off  to  the  woods  and  the  hills, 

(A  truly  forgivable  thing!) 


38 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

He  fished  with  some  qualms  when  he  thought  of  the 

bills 

And  the  papers  and  books,  but  the  joy  of  the  rills 
In  the  brooks  and  the  call  of  the  woods  and  the  hills ! 
(A  quite  understandable  thing!) 

He  didn't  play  hookey !    Oh  no,  not  at  all, 

('Twas  a  really  quite  sensible  thing!) 
But  Johnny  Jones  did,  as  perhaps  you  recall 

That  quite  reprehensible  thing. 
But  the  spirit  of  vagrancy  Johnny  Jones  had 
Was  much  the  same  spirit  as  that  of  his  Dad, 
And  I  say  there's  small  choice  between  Dad  and  the 
Lad, 

(A  really  heretical  thing!) 

— James  W.  Foley. 

From  "Friendly  Rhymes."   Copyrighted  by  and  permission  from  E.  P.  Dut- 
ton  &  Co. 


DARKY'S  RAINY  DAY 

Wen  I  git  up  in  de  mo'nin'  an'  de  clouds  is  big  an'  black, 
Dey's  a  kin*  o'  wa'nin'  shivah  goes  a-scootin'  down  my 

back; 

Den  I  says  to  my  ol'  ooman  ez  I  watches  down  de  lane, 
"Don't  you  so't  o'  reckon,  Lizy,  dat  we  gwine  to  have 

some  rain?" 

"Go  on,  man,"  my  Lizy  answah,  "you  cain't  fool  me, 

not  a  bit, 
I  don't  see  no  rain  a-comin',  ef  you's  wishin'  fu'  it,  quit; 


DARKY'S  RAINY  DAY  39 

Case  de  mo'  you  t'ink  erbout  it,  an'  de  mo'  you  pray 

an'  wish, 
W'y,  de  rain  stay  'way  de  longah,  speshul  ef  you  wants 

to  fish." 

But  I  see  huh  pat  de  skillet,  an'  I  see  huh  cas'  huh  eye 
Wid  a  kin'  o'  anxious  motion  to'ds  de  da'kness  in  de  sky ; 
An'  I  knows  whut  she's  a-t'inkin',  dough  she  tries  so 

ha'd  to  hide. 
She's  a-sayin',  "Wouldn't  catfish  now  tas'e  mon'trous 

bully,  fried?" 

Den  de  clouds  git  black  an'  blackah,  an'  de  thundah 

'mence  to  roll, 
An'  de  rain,  it  'mence  a-fallin'.    Oh,  I's  happy,  bless 

my  soul! 

Ez  I  look  at  dat  ol'  skillet,  an'  I  'magine  I  kin  see 
Jes'  a  slew  o'  new-ketched  catfish  sizzlin'  daih  fu'  huh 

an'  me. 

Taint  no  use  to  go  a-ploughin',  fu'  de  groun'll  be  too 

wet, 
So  I  puts  out  fu'  de  big  house  at  a  moughty  pace,  you 

bet, 
An'  ol'  mastah  say,  "Well,  Lishy,  ef  you  t'ink  hit's 

gwine  to  rain, 
Go  on  fishin',  hit's  de  weathah,  an'  I  'low  we  cain't 

complain." 

Talk  erbout  a  dahky  walkin'  wid  his  haid  up  in  de  aih ! 
Have  to  feel  mine  evah  minute  to  be  sho'  I  got  it  daih; 


40 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

En'  de  win'  is  cuttin'  capahs  an'  a-lashin'  thoo  de  trees, 
But  de  rain  keeps  on  a-singin'  blessed  songs,  lak  "Tek 
yo'  ease." 

Wid  my  pole  erpon  my  shouldah  an'  my  wo'm  can  in 

my  han', 

I  kin  feel  de  fish  a-waitin'  we' en  I  strikes  de  rivah's  san' ; 
Nevah  min',  you  ho'ny  scoun'els,  need'n'  swim  erroun' 

an'  grin, 
I'll  be  grinnin'  in  a  minute  w'en  I  'mence  to  haul  you  in. 

Wen  de  fish  begin  to  nibble,  an'  de  co'k  begin  to  jump, 
I'se  erfeahed  dat  dey'll  quit  bitin',  case  deh  hyeah  my 

hea't  go  "thump," 
Twell  de  co'k  go  way  down  undah,  an'  I  raise  a  awful 

shout, 
Ez  a  big  ol'  yallah  belly  comes  a  gallivantin'  out. 

Needn't  wriggle,  Mistah  Catfish,  case  I  got  you  jes' 
de  same, 

You  been  eatin',  I'll  be  eatin',  an'  we  needah  ain't  to 
blame. 

But  you  needn't  feel  so  lonesome  fu'  I's  th'owin'  out 
to  see 

Ef  dey  ain't  some  of  yo'  comrades  fu'  to  keep  you  com- 
pany. 

Spo't,  dis  fishin' !  now  you  talkin',  w'y  dey  ain't  no  kin* 

to  beat; 
I  don'  keer  ef  I  is  soakin',  laigs,  an'  back,  an'  naik,  an' 

feet, 


THE  FISHING  HOLE 41 

It's  de  spo't  I's  lookin'  aftah.    Hit's  de  pleasure  an' 

de  fun, 
Dough  I  knows  dat  Lizy's  waitin'  wid  de  skillet  w'en 

I's  done. 

—Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar. 

From  "Complete  Poems,"  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 


THE  FISHING  HOLE 

I  know  a  dandy  place  to  fish, 
The  kind  of  place  that  makes  you  wish 
There  never  was  no  work  er  school, 
An'  all  you  had  to  do  was  fool 
Around  all  day  with  line  an'  pole 
An'  pull  'em  out  of  that  there  hole. 

The  Crick  is  swifter  there  a  lot 
But,  to  one  side,  there  is  a  spot 
Among  the  boulders  by  the  hill, 
An'  there  the  water's  always  still. 
There  water-beetles  like  to  ride 
An'  there  is  where  the  big  ones  hide. 

A  bunch  of  spruce  an'  cedar  grows 
Beside  the  fishin'  hole  an'  throws 
Its  shade  across  that  little  pool 
An'  keeps  it  always  dark  an'  cool 
The  hottest  days — I  tell  you  what 
There  ain't  no  better  fishin'  spot! 


42 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

An'  all  you  need  is  just  a  fly 
An'  keep  it  sort  of  drift  in'  by 
So  it  will  ketch  the  fishes'  eyes 
An',  jiminy,  how  they  will  rise! 
There  ain't  no  place  on  all  the  crick 
The  big  ones  seems  to  be  so  thick. 

The  poorest  fisherman,  I  guess, 
Could  go  up  there  an'  git  a  mess ; 
An'  all  you  need  is  line  an'  pole 
To  pull  'em  out  of  that  there  hole. 
What's  that?    Where  is  it? 

-Well, 
You  needn't  think  I'm  goin'  to  tell! 

— Douglas  Malloch. 

THE  DYING  FISHERMAN 

Once  a  fisherman  was  dying  in  his  humble,  lowly 
cot,  and  the  pastor  sat  beside  him  saying  things  that 
hit  the  spot,  so  that  all  his  futile  terrors  left  the  dying 
sinner's  heart,  and  he  said:  "The  journey's  lonely, 
but  I'm  ready  for  the  start.  There  is  just  one  little 
matter  that  is  fretting  me,"  he  sighed,  "and  perhaps 
I'd  better  tell  it  ere  I  cross  the  Great  Divide.  I  have 
got  a  string  of  stories  that  I've  told  from  day  to  day; 
stories  of  the  fish  I've  captured,  and  the  ones  that  got 
away,  and  I  fear  that  when  I  tell  them  they  are  apt 
to  stretch  a  mile;  and  I  wonder  when  I'm  wafted  to 
that  land  that's  free  from  guile,  if  they'll  let  me  tell 
my  stories  if  I  try  to  tell  them  straight,  or  will  angels 


BALLADE  OF  THE  GAMEFISH  43 

lose  their  tempers  then,  and  chase  me  through  the 
gate?"  Then  the  pastor  sat  and  pondered,  for  the 
question  vexed  him  sore;  never  such  a  weird  conun- 
drum had  been  sprung  on  him  before.  Yet  the  courage 
of  conviction  moved  him  soon  to  a  reply,  and  he  wished 
to  fill  the  fisher  with  fair  visions  of  the  sky:  "You  can 
doubtless  tell  fish  stories,"  said  the  clergyman,  aloud, 
"but  I'd  stretch  them  very  little  if  old  Jonah's  in  the 
crowd."  —  Walt  Mason. 

From  "Walt  Mason:  His  Book,"  Barse  &  Hopkins. 

BALLADE  OF  THE  GAMEFISH 

"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream" 

— Colonel  John  Trotwood  Moore. 

Where  the  puddle  is  shallow,  the  weakfish  stay 

To  drift  along  with  the  current's  flow; 
To  take  the  tide  as  it  moves  each  day 

With  the  idle  ripples  that  come  and  go; 
With  a  shrinking  fear  of  the  gales  that  blow 

By  distant  coasts  where  the  Great  Ports  gleam; 
Where  the  far  heights  call  through  the  silver  glow, 

"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream." 

Where  the  shore  is  waiting,  the  minnows  play, 

Borne  by  the  current's  undertow; 
Drifting,  fluttering  on  their  way, 

Bound  by  a  fate  that  has  willed  it  so; 
In  the  tree-flung  shadows  they  never  know 

How  far  they  have  come  from  the  old,  brave  dream ; 
Where  the  wild  gales  call  from  the.  peaks  of  snow, 

"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream." 


44 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Where  the  tide  rolls  down  in  a  flash  of  spray 

And  strikes  with  the  might  of  a  bitter  foe, 
The  shrimp  and  the  sponge  are  held  at  bay 

Where  the  dusk  winds  call  and  the  sun  sinks  low; 
They  call  it  Fate  in  their  endless  woe 

As  they  shrink  in  fear  when  the  wild  hawks  scream 
From  the  crags  and  crests  where  the  great  thorns  grow, 

"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream." 

Held  with  the  current  the  Fates  bestow, 
The  driftwood  moves  to  a  sluggish  theme, 

Nor  heeds  the  call  which  the  Far  Isles  throw, 
"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream." 

— Grantland  Rice. 

Permission  of  the  Author.    From  "The  Sportlight." 


FISHIN' 

Don't  ye  talk  to  me  of  work! 

I'm  jest  goin'  fishin' 
Where  the  speckled  beauties  lurk, 

Round  the  pools  a-swishin'. 
Ne'er  a  thought  have  I  of  care, 
Settin'  on  a  green  bank  there, 
Drinkin'  in  the  soft  June  air, 
Void  of  all  ambition ! 

I  don't  care  much  what  I  ketch, 
Long  as  I  am  anglin'. 

What  I  carry,  what  I  fetch, 
On  my  string  a-danglin'. 


FISHIN'  45 


Makes  no  difference  to  me — 
Some  or  none,  whiche'er  it  be— 
While  I'm  off  there  wholly  free 
From  all  scenes  of  wranglin'. 

Fishin'  ain't  jest  ketchin'  fish 

In  a  pond  or  river— 
Though  a  fresh  trout  on  a  dish 

Makes  ye  sort  o'  shiver — 
Fishin's  settin'  on  some  spot 
Where  it's  neither  cold  ner  hot, 
Without  thinkin'  on  your  lot — 

Fortune,  love,  or  liver. 

Fishin's  gettin'  far  away 

From  all  noise  and  flurry; 
Gettin'  off  where  you  can  play 

Nothin's  in  a  hurry; 
There  to  sort  o'  loaf,  and  set, 
Blind  to  all  the  things  that  fret, 
And  forgettin'  all  regret, 

Quarrils,  cares,  and  worry. 

Yessir!    I'll  give  up  ambition, 
And  fer  fame  and  fortune  wishin' 
Any  day  to  go  a-fishin' ! 

— John  Kendrick  Bangs. 

From  "The  Foothills  of  Parnassus,"  The  Macmfflan  Co. 


46  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


FISHING 

Maybe  this  is  fun,  sitting  in  the  sun, 

With  a  book  and  parasol,  as  my  Angler  wishes, 

While  he  dips  his  line  in  the  ocean  brine, 
Under  the  impression  that  his  bait  will  catch  the 
fishes. 

Tis  romantic,  yes,  but  I  must  confess 

Thoughts  of  shady  rooms  at  home  somehow  seem 

more  inviting. 
But  I  dare  not  move — "Quiet,  there,  my  love!" 

Says  my  Angler,  "for  I  think  a  monster  fish  is  biting." 

Oh,  of  course  it's  bliss,  but  how  hot  it  is! 

And  the  rock  I'm  sitting  on  grows  harder  every 

minute ; 
Still  my  fisher  waits,  trying  various  baits, 

But  the  basket  at  his  side  I  see  has  nothing  in  it. 

Oh,  it's  just  the  way  to  pass  a  July  day, 

Arcadian  and  sentimental,  dreamy,  idle,  charming, 
But  how  fierce  the  sunlight  falls!  and  the  way  that 

insect  crawls 

Along  my  neck  and  down  my  back  is  really  quite 
alarming. 

"Any  luck?"  I  gently  ask  of  the  angler  at  his  task, 
"There's  something  pulling  at  my  line,"  he  says; 
"I've  almost  caught  it." 


THE  ANGLER'S  CHANT  47 

But  when,  with  blistered  face,  we  our  homeward  steps 

retrace, 

We  take  the  little  basket  just  as  empty  as  we  brought 
it. 

—Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

From  "Poems  of  Pleasure,"  W.  B.  Conkey  Co.,  Chicago,  I1L 


THE  ANGLER'S  CHANT 

Ah,  the  shriek  of  the  reel,  the  trout-fisher's  reel ! 

No  sound  is  so  sweet  to  the  ear; 
The  hum  of  the  line,  the  buzz  of  the  wheel! 

Where  the  crystalline  brook  runs  so  clear. 

Here's  a  shade  on  the  stream  where  the  willows  bend 
down, 

Where  the  waters  sleep  drowsy  and  dim, 
And  there  where  the  ripples  whirl  amber  and  brown 

The  lords  of  the  rivulets  swim. 

Then  fling  the  light  tackle  with  delicate  cast, 

Let  your  fly  like  a  cobweb  alight, 
A  dash  and  a  splash,  and  the  victim  is  fast, 

While  your  reel  sings  a  song  of  delight. 

See,  yonder  a  green-moss'd  boulder  enchecks 

The  stress  of  the  turbulent  tides, 
And  there  amid  bubbles  and  foam-bell  flecks 

The  gold-spotted  brook-trout  hides. 


48 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  sweet  breezes  blow,  the  morning  sun  shines, 
The  white  clouds  drift  slow  down  the  sky; 

Tis  a  day  that  is  perfect  for  sport  with  the  lines, 
For  artistic  cast  of  the  fly. 

Ah,  haste  to  the  shore,  brother  angler,  to-day, 
On  the  weedy  gray  rock  take  your  place, 

Where  the  surf,  at  its  base,  makes  glorious  race, 
And,  like  rainbows,  glitters  the  spray! 

Cast  your  eye  o'er  the  blue  expanse  of  sea; 

How  lovely,  how  grand  is  the  scene! 
The  great  rolling  waves,  now  dusky,  now  green, 

Forever  rejoicing  and  free. 

See  the  flash  of  the  bluefish  over  the  main, 

The  gleam  of  the  bright  striped  bass ! 
Then  the  braided  line  fling,  let  the  reel  hum  its 

strain, 
And  so  the  gay  moments  shall  pass. 

— Isaac  McLellan. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  REEL 
Song  for  the  Opening  of  the  Trout  Season. 

Hail!  soft  and  genial  vernal  morn! 

Hail!  brooklet  flowing  clear! 
O,  joy,  with  rod  in  hand  again 

To  greet  our  opening  year ! 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  REEL  49 

While  Hope's  bright  pleasure?  cheer  my  heart, 

And  o'er  my  fancy  steal, 
As  on  my  ear  so  sweetly  rings 

The  music  of  the  reel ! 

It  sings  of  winter  past  and  gone, 

Of  daily  lengthening  hours, 
When  sunny  spring  shall  gaily  bring 

The  cuckoo  and  the  flowers ; 
When  oft  amid  the  meads  my  rod 

Shall  lightly  wave,  and  feel 
The  leaping  trout  arise  and  ring 

The  music  of  the  reel ! 

Nor  Hope  lone  is  in  the  tone 

This  sweetest  music  gives, 
But  many  a  happy  memory  wakes, 

Thus  started,  and  re-lives — 
Of  morn  and  eve  by  river  side, 

And  easeful  noon-day  meal, 
While  slept  upon  the  resting  sod, 

The  music  of  the  reel ! 

But  Hope  o'er  Memory  now  prevails, 

And  fans  her  forward  wing; 
And  as  I  lift  anew  the  rod 

I  hear  her  cheerly  sing — 
May  coming  days  be  best  of  all, 

And  fuller  fill  the  creel, 
And  richer  spoil  reward  thy  toil 

With  music  from  the  reel ! 

— 'Cotswold  Isys. 


50 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

WHEN  YOU 

When  you  stop  a  week  at  the  best  hotel 

And  stay  within  sound  of  the  dinner  bell, 

With  a  can  of  worms  and  a  bamboo  stick 

And  catch  fifty-nine  perch  and  twelve  bluegills  quick, 

You're  a  fisherman, 

Yes,  sir,  you're  a  fisherman! 

When  you  start  at  dawn  with  a  box  of  grub 
And  a  lot  of  minnows  alive  in  a  tub, 
And  fill  the  boat  as  the  swift  hours  pass 
With  a  mess  of  croppies  and  several  bass, 

You're  an  angler, 

Yes,  sir,  you're  an  angler! 

When  you  hire  a  "pusher"  to  handle  the  oars 
And  cast  every  foot  by  the  weedy  shores, 
Throw  your  frog  through  a  hole  six  inches  wide 
And  get  a  strike  on  the  other  side, 

You're  a  caster, 

Yes,  sir,  you're  a  caster! 

When  you  strike  the  lake  while  the  fishing's  bad 
And  there's  not  a  decent  fish  to  be  had, 
You  land  a  half-pounder  and  throw  him  back  in 
And  return  at  night  with  a  happy  grin, 

You're  a  sportsman, 

By  gad,  you're  a  sportsman! 

—Paul  H.  Woodruff. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


POOR  FEESH  51 


POOR  FEESH! 

I  hate  fishing — 

Most  overrated  amusement 

Known. 

But  because  it's 

Cruel, 

Senseless, 

And  old  as  sin — 

It's  thrillingly  popular! 

Fishermen — for  fun — 

Always  says  it's  "sport". 

How  do  they 

Get  that  way? 

Might  as  well 

Sit  in  the  back  yard, 

With  a  rod, 

And  line, 

And  reel, 

And  fly-baited  hook, 

And  "cast"  back  of  the 

Syringa-bush  until 

Some  foolish,  inoffensive  bird 

Darts  down  and  makes 

A  "strike". 

Then,  when  it's  reeled  in, 

Souse  it  in  the 

Rain  barrel,  so  it 

Can't  breathe, 

(Any  more  than  a 


52  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Fish  can,  out  of  water,) 
And  think  well 
Of  yourself! 

The  bird  would 

Fight  as  hard  as 

Any  mountain-stream  trout, 

Or  lake  bass,  so — 

There's  your  "sport." 

Fishermen,  as  such, 

Spend  interminable  hours 

Playing  a  rotten  game 

Like  that,  on  opponents 

Without  a  come-back, — 

All  the  way  from  trout 

To  tarpon. 

And  when  "a  bunch  of  beauties" 

Is  basketed, 

(Minus  the  biggest-one- 

That-got-away,  of  course), 

The  fisherman  runs 

A  string  through  the  gills 

And  gaping  mouths  of  the  dying  catch, 

Ties  one  end  of  the  line 

To  a  tree,  the  other 

To  a  tent-pole, 

Strikes  a  chesty 

"This-is-nothing-unusual"  pose, 

And  has  friend  guide 

Take  a  snapshot — 


POOR  FEESH  53 


With  the  camera  as  close 
As  possible, 
To  make  the  fish 
Look  bigger. 

Ninety-nine  out  of 

Every  one  hundred  fishermen 

Don't  actually  crave 

Fish  for  food — 

Much  as  they  need  it 

For  brain  development. 

They  just  fish, 

And  brag, 

And  lie, 

And  bluff, 

And  return  home 

Full  of  importance, 

Large  gestures, 

Patronizing  remarks, 

And  chiggers. 

Then — on  the  quiet — 

Canned  salmon  or  sardines 

Are  game  enough  for  them. 

No  wonder  a  peevish  shark 

Now  and  then  resents 

Some  man  invading  the  ocean, 

And  bites  off 

An  arm  or  leg  or  two. 

Strength  to  its  jaws! 


54  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

I  hate  fishing— 
And  all  those  blurbs 
About  it  being  such 
Wonderful  sport. 
Wonderful?    Uh-huh! 
About  as  wonderful 
As  swatting  flies. 

Anyway — 

I  never  have  any  luck. 

—Jack  Appleton. 

A  CHANGE  OF  BAIT 

A  sunburned  kid,  with  a  tattered  lid, 

And  a  coat  a  size  too  large, 
With  a  piece  of  twine,  for  a  fishing  line, 

Sits  fishing  on  a  barge 
That's  tied  to  a  stake,  at  the  edge  of  the  lake, 

Where  the  wavelets  gently  lap, 
It's  a  kind  of  a  sin,  but  I  sit  and  grin, 

As  I  watch  the  little  chap 
Transfix  a  worm,  that  will  wiggle  and  squirm, 

On  the  end  of  his  fishing  hook, 
Or  a  small  green  frog,  that  he  caught  in  the  bog, 

On  the  other  side  of  the  brook. 

He's  proud  of  the  job,  of  the  floating  bob, 
That  he's  tied  to  his  line  with  care, 

There's  a  sudden  swish,  as  he  lands  his  fish, 
From  the  depths  of  its  hidden  lair, 


THE  LONG  ISLAND  TROUT  55 

It  is  proudly  viewed,  and  the  bait  renewed 

From  the  can  where  he  keeps  his  store, 
Then  he  lets  it  drop,  with  a  sudden  plop, 

In  his  eager  quest  for  more, 
And  he  gets  them,  too,  for  they  come  to  view 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
And  I'm  clean  outdone,  for  never  a  one, 

Will  come  where  I'm  sitting  by. 

For,  much  as  I  wish,  there's  never  a  fish 

Will  rise  to  my  tempting  fly, 
And  my  bran-new  reel,  on  my  rod  of  steel, 

I '  ve  never  a  chance  to  try, 
For  they  pass  my  place,  to  the  freckled  face 

Of  the  lad  in  the  anchored  punt, 
Keep  swimming  past,  as  I  make  my  cast, 

In  my  vain  and  useless  hunt 
For  a  fish  that  will  try,  to  grab  my  fly, 

And  be  tempted  on  to  its  fate, 
So  I  go  to  the  spot,  where  the  fish  are  caught, 

And  fish  with  a  silver  bait. 

— John  R.  McCrea. 

Printed  in  and  permission  from  "Rod  and  Gun  in  Canada." 

THE  LONG  ISLAND  TROUT 

Down  in  the  deep 

Dark  holes  I  keep, 
And  there,  in  the  noontide,  I  float  and  sleep; 

By  the  hemlock  log 

And  the  springing  bog 
And  the  arching  alders,  I  lie  incog. 


56  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  angler's  fly 

Comes  dancing  by, 
But  never  a  moment  it  cheats  my  eye; 

For  the  hermit  trout 

Is  not  such  a  lout 
As  to  be  by  a  wading  boy  pulled  out. 

King  of  the  brook, 

No  fisher's  hook 
Fills  me  with  dread  of  a  sweaty  cook; 

But  here  I  lie 

And  laugh  as  they  try; 
Shall  I  bite  their  bait?    No,  no,  not  I. 

But  when  the  streams, 

With  moonlight  beams, 
Sparkle,  all  silver,  and  starlight  gleams; 

Then,  then,  look  out 

For  the  hermit  trout; 
For  he  springs  and  dimples  the  shallows  about, 

While  the  tired  angler  dreams. 

—William  Post  Hawes  ("Cypress,  Jr."). 

FRESH  RUN 

Well  hooked,  but  far  from  beaten  yet, 

He  plays  a  gallant  fighting  part. 
My  nerves  are  strung,  my  teeth  are  set, 
My  brow,  and  more  of  me,  is  wet 
With  what  is  surely  honest  sweat— 
Who  christened  this  the  "gentle  art?" 


FRESH  RUN  57 


Just  where  the  swirling  rapids  flash, 
He  took  me  with  a  sudden  dart, 

Then  came  a  pull,  a  sounding  splash, 

A  whirring  reel,  a  furious  dash, 

Then  over  boulders,  leap  and  crash — 
Who  christened  this  the  "gentle  art?" 

So  lumbering  onwards  blown  and  spent, 
These  forty  minutes  from  the  start 

I  have  pursued  where'er  he  went, 

The  rovings  of  his  discontent, 

My  greenheart  to  a  crescent  bent — 
Who  christened  this  the  "gentle  art?" 

Spectators  watch  with  eager  eyes, 
They  shout  together  and  apart: 

"Be  gentle  with  him,"  some  advise; 

"Give  him  the  butt,"  another  cries; 

Their  clamor  mounts  unto  the  skies — 
Who  christened  this  the  "gentle  art?" 

He  girds  him  for  his  final  play, 
And  I,  with  victory  at  my  heart, 

Summon  the  gaff  to  end  him.    Nay! 

My  line  sags  emptily  away— 

Shade  of  old  Izaak,  what  to  say? 

Who  christened  this  the  "gentle  art?" 

— Alfred  Cochrane. 

From  "Collected  Verses." 


58  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


THE  ANGLER'S  DREAM  OF  SPRING 

Arbutus  mauve,  and  lily  white, 
And  rhododendron  flowers  bedight, 

On  winding  banks  are  blooming. 
Sky-gems,  reflected  through  the  night, 
Woo  violets  nodding  blue  and  bright, 

That  sway  by  waters  crooning, 
And  peep  all  shyly  o'er  the  bank 
Beneath  sweet-fern  plumes  tall  and  rank, 

To  thorn-flowers'  cool  perfuming ! 
Above,  low  pine-rune  zephyrs  play, 
As  brook-notes  sing,  "Away!  Away!" 
And  showers  of  seed-pearls  gaily  tossed, 
Are  silvered  by  the  moon  and  lost ; 

There  bamboo  rods  are  whisked  about, 

While  flies  are  cast  for  lusty  trout. 

— L.  F.  Brown. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


THE  ANGLER'S  TRYSTING-TREE 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Meet  the  morn  upon  the  lea ; 
Are  the  emeralds  of  spring 

On  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 
Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me, 
Are  there  buds  on  our  willow-tree  ? 
Buds  and  birds  on  the  trysting-tree? 


FISHERMEN  THREE  59 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Have  you  met  the  honey-bee, 
Circling  upon  rapid  wing 

Round  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 
Up,  sweet  thrushes,  up  and  see; 
Are  there  bees  at  our  willow-tree  ? 
Birds  and  bees  at  the  trysting-tree? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Are  the  fountains  gushing  free? 
Is  the  south  wind  wandering 

Through  the  angler's  trysting-tree? 
Up,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me, 
Is  the  wind  at  our  willow-tree? 
Wind  or  calm  at  the  trysting-tree? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  up  and  sing ! 

Wile  us  with  a  merry  glee, 
To  the  flowery  haunts  of  spring — 

To  the  angler's  trysting-tree. 
Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me, 
Are  there  flowers  'neath  our  willow-tree? 
Spring  and  flowers  at  the  trysting-tree? 

—Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 

FISHERMEN  THREE 

Old  Pharaoh  went  a-fishing; 
He'd  catch  'em  with  his  hands, 
And  so  he  fell  to  groping 
Among  the  Red  Sea  sands. 


60 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  sands  were  quick,  it  may  be, 
Or  he  a  trifle  slow ; 
He  sank  so  far  Old  Clootie 
Called,  "Welcome,  Phar-a-oh." 

Old  Noah  went  a-fishing ; 
He  sat  upon  the  ark 
And  kept  his  hooks  a-dangle 
From  daylight  on  to  dark. 
His  catch  was  pretty  meager; 
But  every  one  affirms 
He  had  no  chance,  because  he 
Had  just  a  pair  of  worms. 

Old  Jonah  went  a-fishing; 
He  got  a  leaky  boat ; 
First  thing  he  knew,  it  wouldn't 
Much  more  than  stay  afloat. 
But  he  was  nothing  daunted 
And  when  he  felt  a  wish 
To  get  back  home,  he  promptly 
Took  passage  in  a  fish. 

— St.  Clair  Adams. 

MY  BEST  KENTUCKY  REEL 

"To  my  friend,  Hon.  Graver  Cleveland,  I  bequeath  my 
best  Kentucky  reel" — Joseph  Jefferson. 

Dear  friend,  I  nevermore  shall  hear 
Your  shout  above  the  rushing  stream, 

Nor  see  your  struggling  captive  leap 
Where  rainbows  o'er  the  rapids  gleam. 


MY  BEST  KENTUCKY  REEL  61 

But,  ah !  for  sake  of  old  lang  syne, 
For  sake  of  friendship  long  and  leal, 

Take,  with  a  comrade's  lasting  love, 
My  best  Kentucky  reel. 

How  oft  your  ardent  eyes  have  said, 

"Ah  me!  how  beautiful  and  rare, 
With  music  in  its  silken  click, 

And  graven  with  such  loving  care!" 
You  never  said,  "I'd  like  it,  Joe; 

I  envy  you  from  head  to  heel" ; 
But,  Grover,  well  I  knew  you  craved 

My  best  Kentucky  reel ! 

And  now  it's  yours,  fond  friend  and  best, 

Your  undisputed  own  for  aye, 
To  sing  to  you  beside  the  stream 

Through  many  a  bloom-white  April  day — 
To  sing,  I  fain  would  think,  of  me, 

When  soft  thoughts  o'er  your  spirits  steal, 
And  you  can  hear  me  prating  of 

My  best  Kentucky  reel. 

I  pray  you  treat  it  well,  old  chum, 

And  keep  it  oiled  and  polished  bright, 
And  never  lay  it  damp  away, 

Though  you  come  weary  home  at  night. 
I've  held  in  trust,  I  give  in  trust, 

A  very  masterpiece  of  steel.    • 
So  cherish  lovingly,  dear  friend, 

My  best  Kentucky  reel. 


62 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

God  speed  you,  fellow  fisherman, 

Beside  the  roaring  brook, 
And  many  a  crimson-spotted  trout 

Send  surging  up  to  try  your  hook. 
Oh!  would  that  I  could  still  stand  by, 

Or  with  the  net  in  triumph  kneel, 
While  o'er  the  brawling  turmoil  sings 

My  best  Kentucky  reel ! 

But  I  have  said  my  last  farewell 

To  all  the  streams  I  used  to  know, 
Content,  if  you  will  sometimes  stop 

And  think  a  while  of  Angler  Joe, 
Lie  on  some  bank  we  used  to  love, 

And  let  old  memories  o'er  you  steal, 
Meantime  a  tear,  that  shall  not  rust, 

Dries  on  my  best  Kentucky  reel. 

— James  Buckham. 

Permission  of  "The  Independent  and  The  Weekly  Review." 


MY  FAVORITE  BOOK 

Of  all  books  in  my  library,  the  one  I  cherish  most 
Is  a  book  of  ringing  poems,  and  I  read  them  o'er 

and  o'er; 
They  sing  to  me  of  the  woodland,  they  whisper  of  the 

coast, 

When  I  watched  the  sounding  river  dash  its  waters 
on  the  shore. 


MY  FAVORITE  BOOK 63 

Tis  a  fly-book,  old  and  battered,  and  to  its  covers 

cling 

The  scales  of  good  fish  captured  in  riffle  and  in  pool ; 
And  when  I  part  those  covers,  the  birds  begin  to 

sing, 

And  the  south  wind  on  my  forehead  blows  lovingly 
and  cool, 

And  the  low  of  homing  cattle  is  borne  up  from  the  lea. 

How  the  murmur  of  the  river  is  musical,  yet  strange, 
For  the  voice  of  running  water  has  ever  been  to  me 

A  monition  of  the  progress  of  that  mighty  law  of 
change, 

Saying,  "Come  into  the  woodland  while  thy  heart  doth 

still  retain 
Its    buoyancy    and    freshness,    and    breathe   these 

pleasant  airs; 
To  all  men  comes  that  moment  when  nothing  will 

remain 

Of  the  memory  of  the  past  time  but  its  worries  and 
its  cares." 

I  look  into  my  fly-book:  'tis  a  gallery  to  me 
Of  pictures  of  old  places,  old  streams,  old  battles, 

when 
The  strong  fish  leaped  and  bounded  in  his  struggles  to 

be  free, 

And  I  fought  him  through  the  river,  past  the  bridge 
and  up  the  glen. 


64 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Thus,  when  weary  of  the  city,  and  tired  of  other  books, 

I  gaze  into  my  fly-book,  and,  lo!  is  with  me  now 
The  voice  of  homing  cattle  and  the  murmur  of  the 

brooks, 

And  Mother  Nature's  greeting  is  pressed  upon  my 
brow.  — Daniel  O'ConnelL 

From  "Songs  of  Bohemia,"  A.  M.  Robertson  Co. 

THE  PLEASANT'ST  ANGLING 

The  pleasant 'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait. 

— William  Shakespeare. 

YM*uch  Ado  About  Nothing,"  III.  1.  26. 

GIVE  ME  MINE  ANGLE 

Cleo.    Give  me  mine  angle ;  we'll  to  the  river:  there — 

My  music  playing  far  off — I  will  betray 

Tawny-finn'd  fishes;  my  bended  hook  shall  pierce 

Their  slimy  jaws;  and,  as  I  draw  them  up, 

I'll  think  them  every  one  an  Antony, 

And  say,  'Ah,  ha!  you're  caught.' 

Char.  'Twas  merry  when 

You  wager'd  on  your  angling;  when  your  diver 

Did  hang  a  salt-fish  on  his  hook,  which  he 

With  fervency  drew  up. 

Cleo.  That  time — O  times! — 

I  laugh'd  him  out  of  patience. 

— William  Shakespeare. 

"Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  II.  4.  10. 


TROLLING  SONG  65 

HOW  MEN  LIVE 

Third  Fish.  Nay,  master,  said  not  I  as  much  when  I 
saw  the  porpus  how  he  bounced  and  tumbled?  they 
say  they're  half  fish  half  flesh;  a  plague  on  them! 
they  ne'er  come  but  I  look  to  be  washed.  Master,  I 
marvel  how  the  fishes  live  in  the  sea. 
First  Fish.  Why,  as  men  do  a-land;  the  great  ones 
eat  up  the  little  ones;  I  can  compare  our  rich  misers 
to  nothing  so  fitly  as  to  a  whale;  a  plays  and  tumbles, 
driving  the  poor  fry  before  him,  and  at  last  devours 
them  all  at  a  mouthful.  Such  whales  have  I  heard  on 
o'  the  land,  who  never  leave  gaping  till  they've  swal- 
lowed the  whole  parish,  church,  steeple,  bells,  and  all. 

— William  Shakespeare. 

"Pericles,"  II.  1.  25. 

TROLLING  SONG 

The  bell-throats  o'  the  bonny  birds  ring, 
When  the  angler  goes  a-trolling ; 

The  south  wind  waves  his  cheery  wing, 
And  gentle  rains  are  falling. 

The  white  thorn  bears  its  bridal  wreath, 
When  the  angler  goes  a-trolling ; 

And  hark !  along  the  bloomy  heath 
The  plaintive  plover  calling ! 

Breezy  and  brown  the  rivers  glide, 
When  the  angler  goes  a-trolling; 

The  dark  burns  leave  the  green  hill-side 
Among  the  pebbles  brawling. 


66 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Upon  the  meadow,  by  the  springs 

The  quiet  herds  are  lolling; 
All  earth  is  full  of  happy  things 

When  the  angler  goes  a-trolling! 

— Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 

TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

The  end  draws  near  again,  and  very  near, 
The  first  few  fluttered  beech  leaves  fall  and  gleam — 
Light  skirmishers  that  dog  the  dying  year— 
But  still  I  see  you  down  below  the  weir, 
A  shadow  in  the  stream! 

Here  have  you  lurked  since  spring,  in  sportive  guise, 
Rallied  the  meadows  to  young  April's  rout, 
Here  first  I  marked  the  marvel  of  your  size, 
Here  wooed  you  with  each  fleeting  season's  flies— 
O  alderman  of  trout ! 

Here,  when  the  madcap  cuckoo  made  his  mock, 
And  the  rathe  wild-rose  blushed  in  earliest  June, 
The  day  the  mayfly  hatched  above  the  lock— 
You  nearly  had  it,  didn't  you,  old  cock, 
Save  that  you  stopped  too  soon? 

Here  have  I  waited  as  the  dawn  spread  high, 
Hoping  in  vain  the  prejudice  or  pique 
That  makes  you — obviously — reject  a  fly 
Would  send  you  hurtling  through  the  startled  fry 
To  grab  a  proffered  bleak! 


THE  BLUE-NOSED  WORM 67 

Here  likewise  have  my  steps  at  eve  been  drawn, 
And,  as  the  moon  made  way  behind  the  wood 
(The  same  old  moon  that  watched  the  hunting  faun), 
I've  found  the  lob- worm  garnered  from  the  lawn 
Did  just  as  little  good! 

And  now  the  end  is  near;  we  part  a  space, 
You  to  your  mud  and  I  to  mine — in  town; 
May  Easter  find  us  at  the  trysting-place, 
There  where  the  dancing  bubbles  spin  and  race, 
To  meet  the  first  March  Brown ! 

—Patrick  R.  Chalmers. 

From  "Green  Days  and  Blue  Days,"  The  Norman,  Remington  Co. 


THE  BLUE-NOSED  WORM 

The  good  March  Brown  in  April,  May, 
Your  labor  sweet  will  better  pay, 
But  when  the  pink  wild  roses  blow 
Or  heather  blooms,  'tis  time  to  show 
The  blue-nosed  worm. 

"The  thing's  amiss,"  some  critics  sneer; 
"Tis  dirty  work  and  torture  sheer," 
Yet  empty  baskets  change  their  tune, 
And  they  discard,  in  leafy  June, 
The  fly,  for  worm. 

— Alexander  Mackie. 

From  "The  Art  of  Worm-fishing." 


68  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


THE  ANGLER'S  BALLAD 

Away  to  the  brook, 
All  your  tackle  out-look, 

Here's  a  day  that  is  worth  a  year's  wishing; 
See  that  all  things  be  right, 
For  'tis  a  very  spite 

To  want  tools  when  a  man  goes  a-fishing. 

Your  rod  with  tops  two 
For  the  same  will  not  do, 

If  your  manner  of  angling  you  vary; 
And  full  well  you  may  think, 
If  you  troll  with  a  pink, 

One  too  weak  will  be  apt  to  miscarry. 

Then  basket,  neat  made 
By  a  master  in's  trade, 

In  a  belt  at  your  shoulders  must  dangle; 
For  none  e'er  was  so  vain 
To  wear  this  to  distain, 

Who  a  true  brother  was  of  the  angle. 

Next,  pouch  must  not  fail, 
Stuff'd  as  full  as  a  mail 

With  wax,  crewels,  silk,  hair,  furs,  and  feathers, 
To  make  several  flies 
For  the  several  skies, 

That  shall  kill  in  despite  of  all  weathers. 


THE  ANGLER'S  BALLAD 69 

The  boxes  and  books 

For  your  lines  and  your  hooks, 

And,  though  not  for  strict  need  notwithstanding, 
Your  scissors,  and  your  hone 
To  adjust  your  points  on, 

With  a  net  to  be  sure  for  your  landing. 

All  these  being  on, 

'Tis  high  time  we  were  gone, 

Down,  and  upward,  that  all  may  have  pleasure; 
Till,  here  meeting  at  night, 
We  shall  have  the  delight 

To  discourse  of  our  fortunes  at  leisure. 

The  day's  not  too  bright, 
And  the  wind  hits  us  right, 

And  all  nature  does  seem  to  invite  us ; 
We  have  all  things  at  will 
For  to  second  our  skill, 

As  they  all  did  conspire  to  delight  us. 

On  stream,  now,  or  still, 
A  large  pannier  we'll  fill, 

Trout  and  grayling  to  rise  are  so  willing; 
I  dare  venture  to  say 
'Twill  be  a  bloody  day, 

And  we  all  shall  be  weary  of  killing. 

Away,  then,  away, 
We  lose  sport  by  delay ; 

But  first,  leave  all  our  sorrows  behind  us; 


70  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

If  Misfortune  do  come, 
We  are  all  gone  from  home, 

And  a-fishing  she  never  can  find  us. 

The  angler  is  free 

From  the  cares  that  degree 

Finds  itself  with,  so  often,  tormented; 
And  although  we  should  slay 
Each  a  hundred  to-day, 

Tis  a  slaughter  needs  ne'er  be  repented. 

And  though  we  display 
All  our  arts  to  betray 

What  were  made  for  man's  pleasure  and  diet ; 
Yet  both  princes  and  states 
May,  for  all  our  quaint  baits, 

Rule  themselves  and  their  people  in  quiet. 

We  scratch  not  our  pates, 
Nor  repine  at  the  rates 

Our  superiors  impose  on  our  living; 
But  do  frankly  submit, 
Knowing  they  have  more  wit 

In  demanding,  than  we  have  in  giving. 

Whilst  in  quiet  we  sit 
We  conclude  all  things  fit, 

Acquiescing  with  hearty  submission; 
For,  though  simple,  we  know 
That  soft  murmurs  will  grow 

At  the  last  into  downright  sedition 


FISHING  71 


We  care  not  who  says, 
And  intends  it  dispraise, 

That  an  angler  t'  a  fool  is  next  neighbor; 
Let  him  prate;  what  care  we? 
We're  as  honest  as  he, 

And  so  let  him  take  that  for  his  labor. 

We  covet  no  wealth 

But  the  blessing  of  health, 

And  that  greater,  good  conscience  within; 
Such  devotion  we  bring 
To  our  God  and  our  king 

That  from  either  no  offers  can  win. 

Whilst  we  sit  and  fish, 
We  do  pray  as  we  wish, 

For  long  life  to  our  king,  James  the  Second; 
Honest  anglers  then  may, 
Or  they've  very  foul  play, 

With  the  best  of  good  subjects  be  reckon'd. 

—Charles  Cotton. 

FISHING 

The  days  when  I  went  fishing 

I  would  wake  before  the  dawn, 

The  moon  a  little  lip  of  gold 

Above  a  silver  lawn, 

Where,  in  a  velvet  pool  of  trees, 

A  gray  mist  hung  unstirred  by  breeze, 

Or  any  sound,  so  patiently 

The  world  bore  night,  it  seemed  to  me. 


72 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  house  was  silent  to  my  feet, 
Beneath  a  tip-toe  tread; 
And  I  could  see  behind  each  door, 
Calm  in  a  white-paned  bed, 
An  aunt,  with  high  patrician  nose, 
An  uncle  carmined ;  there  arose 
A  smell  of  matting  on  the  air, 
Sober  and  cooling  everywhere. 

Beside  the  kitchen  stove  the  cat 
Blinked  twice  with  eyes  of  gold, 
And  yawned  with  infinite  contempt, 
For  sleep  is  new,  and  old 
Is  fishing;  on  the  Nile, 
Once  with  mysterious  feline  guile, 
In  moonlit,  temple-shadowed  bays, 
Were  caught  bright  fins,  in  other  days. 

The  cat,  the  stove,  the  open  door, 

Upon  a  miracle  of  sun ! 

O  for  the  dew  upon  the  grass : 

0  for  the  feet  that  dance  and  run ! 
And  in  the  maple's  tip-top  spires 

The  swaying  song  of  passionate  choirs ! 

1  think  that  morning's  finest  joys 
Are  saved  for  little  fishing  boys. 

Where  trout  lie  there  are  white,  white  stones, 

With  running  water  over ; 

And  half  the  air  is  made  of  mint, 

And  half  is  made  of  clover; 


FISHING  73 


And  slow  clouds  come  and  go  and  sail 
Like  giant  fish  with  lazy  tail. 

A  stream  runs  out  a  fine  spun  song 
From  shadowy  pools  to  laughter; 
A  wood  song,  with  a  chorus  clear, 
And  a  lilt  and  a  chuckle  after; 
For  little  pools  with  sunlight  in 
Are  like  plucked  notes  of  a  violin, 
While  through  the  mist  of  melodies 
Stirs  ever  the  motif  of  the  breeze : 

Some  find  bird  carolling  sweet  at  dawn, 
And  some  more  sweet  at  noon ; 
But  fishing  boys  like  dusk,  I  think, 
For  there's  a  hush  that  soon, 
When  evening  sends  them  homeward  bound, 
Turns  every  field  to  tremulous  sound, 
Where  thrush  and  owl  and  meadow-lark 
Chant  to  the  coming  of  the  dark. 

The  nights  when  I'd  been  fishing 

Were  always  very  still, 

Save  for  the  rustling  of  the  leaves; 

A  distant  whippoorwill ; 

And  in  the  sky  a  velvet-blue, 

The  stars  were  golden  fishes  too; 

Swam  slowly,  swam  into  a  dream 

Of  white  stones  and  a  running  stream. 

— Maxwell  Struthers  Burt. 

From  "Songs  and  Portraits."    Published  by  special  permission  of  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


74 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

ANGLING 

Go,  take  thine  angle,  and  with  practised  line, 

Light  as  the  gossamer,  the  current  sweep; 

And  if  thou  failest  in  the  calm  still  deep, 
In  the  rough  eddy  may  the  prize  be  thine. 
Say  thou'rt  unlucky  where  the  sunbeams  shine; 

Beneath  the  shadow,  where  the  waters  creep, 

Perchance  the  monarch  of  the  brook  shall  leap— 
For  fate  is  ever  better  than  design. 
Still  persevere;  the  giddiest  breeze  that  blows, 

For  thee  may  blow  with  fame  and  fortune  rife; 
Be  prosperous — and  what  reck  if  it  arose 

Out  of  some  pebble  with  the  stream  at  strife; 
Or  that  the  light  wind  dallied  with  the  boughs? 

Thou  are  successful; — such  is  human  life. 

— Thomas  Doubleday. 

COROMANDEL  FISHERS 

Rise,  brothers,  rise!    The  wakening  skies  pray  to  the 

morning  light, 
The  wind  lies  asleep  in  the  arms  of  the  dawn  like  a 

child  that  has  cried  all  night. 
Come,  let  us  gather  our  nets  from  the  shore,  and  set 

our  catamarans  free, 
To  capture  the  leaping  wealth  of  the  tide,  for  we  are 

the  sons  of  the  sea. 
No  longer  delay,  let  us  hasten  away  in  the  track  of  the 

sea-gull's  call, 
The  sea  is  our  mother,  the  cloud  is  our  brother,  the 

waves  are  our  comrades  all. 


TO  THE  OCCASIONAL  ANGLER          75 

What  though  we  toss  at  the  fall  of  the  sun  where  the 

hand  of  the  sea-god  drives? 
He  who  holds  the  storm  by  the  hair  will  hide  in  His 

breast  our  lives. 
Sweet  is  the  shade  of  the  cocoanut-glade,  and  the  scent 

of  the  mango-grove, 
And  sweet  are  the  sands  at  the  fall  of  the  moon  with 

the  sound  of  the  voices  we  love. 
But  sweeter,  O  brothers,  the  kiss  of  the  spray  and  the 

dance  of  the  wild  foam's  glee : 
Row,  brothers,  row  to  the  blue  of  the  verge,  where  the 

low  sky  mates  with  the  sea! 

— Sarojini  Naidu. 


TO  THE  OCCASIONAL  ANGLER 

If  the  times  are  unpropitious  and  you  find  your  "catch" 

of  fishes, 
As  the  sun  is  sinking  westward,  hasn't  panned  out 

quite  the  thing; 
There's  a  method,   "on  the  quiet" — ah,   how  many 

experts  try  it! 

That  may,  despite  your  failure,  send  you  home  with 
quite  a  "string." 

There  are  natives  on  the  lookout  for  the  man  with 

pocketbook  out, 

On  a  fun-and-fishing  frolic,  when  the  fates  don't  use 
him  well; 


76  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  he  feels  his  reputation  on  a  slippery,  slim  founda- 
tion— 

They've  a  remedy  convenient — they  have  always 
fish  to  sell. 

Do  you  ask  me  how  they  get  them?    Why,  they  snare 

them  and  they  net  them, 
With  the  aid  of  vile  "contraptions,"  which  the  game 

laws  quite  condemn; 
What  they're  after  is  your  money;  that's  their  manna, 

milk  and  honey, 
And  the  "modus  operandi"  matters  not  a  jot  to  them. 

If,  by  look  or  by  suggestion,  you  their  plans  should 

seem  to  question, 
You  are  simply  wasting  time,  my  friend;  the  truth 

they  cannot  speak. 

Ananias  isn't  "in  it,"  they  can  tell  more  lies  per  minute 
Than  that  star  prevaricator  could  engender  in  a  week. 

Though  of  aspect  dull  and  drowsy,  though  of  locks 

unkempt  and  frowsy, 
Though  of  soiled  and  freckled  cuticle,  and  costume 

rude  and  strange; 
In  their  frowziness  and  freckles,  they're  as  keen  in 

quest  of  sheckles, 

As  the  diamond-decked  deceivers  that  vociferate 
"on  change." 

In  their  nasal,  jangling  jargon,  they're  the  boys  to 

drive  a  bargain, 

And  their  weird  and  woful  bearing  knocks  expostu- 
lation dumb; 


TO  THE  OCCASIONAL  ANGLER  77 

As  they  swear  in  gibbering  gammon,  they're  the  prey 

of  pinching  famine, 

Though  their  beards  and   breaths   betoken  much 
tobacco-juice  and  rum. 

Well,  ignoring  their  devices,  be  prepared  to  pay  their 

prices ; 
For,   with  india-rubber  consciences,   they'll   "salt" 

you  every  time; 
Promptly  pour  them  forth  your  treasure   (you  can 

curse  them  at  your  leisure), 

At  the  rate  of,  say,  a  dollar  for  a  fish  that's  worth  a 
dime. 

Then,  triumphant,  home  returning,  you  will  gratify 

the  yearning, 
Of  admiring  friends  and  family,  and  thrilling  tales 

you'll  tell; 
Of  the  deep  pools  where  you  sought  them,  how  they 

"struck"  and  how  you  "fought"  them, 
While    you    picturesquely    pose,    a    perfect    Izaak 
Walton  swell. 

So,  when  cometh  your  vacation,  and,  as  means  of 

recreation, 

You  proceed  to  plot  and  plan  a  piscatorial  "jam- 
boree"; 
Bear  in  mind  no  bait  nor  tackle,  fluttering  fly,  nor 

fluffy  hackle, 

Will  be  half  so  efficacious  as  the  greenback  marked 
with  V. 

— Ed.  Leggo. 


78  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


ANGLING 

The  straining  rod,  the  quivering  line, 

And  the  whirr  of  the  spinning  reel, 
That  thrill  the  heart  like  mellow  wine, 

Are  joys  that  fishermen  feel, 
When  a  rainbow  shoots, 
From  the  hollow  roots 

Of  the  pine  by  the  golden  pool, 
And  meets  the  sweep  of  the  painted  fly 
Descending  out  of  the  azure  sky 

To  rest  on  the  waters  cool. 

So  give  me  a  brook  and  a  pleasant  day, 
A  line,  a  hook,  and  a  bit  of  feather; 

And  the  world  may  follow  its  weary  way, 
While  the  brook  and  I  go  trav'ling  together. 
—John  W.  Fisher,  Jr. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


THE  FISHERMEN  MEND  THEIR  NETS 

Down  by  the  sea  when  the  world  was  young 

The  fishermen  mended  their  nets. 
Above  the  conqueror's  banners  hung 

From  glittering  minarets. 
Then  came  the  conqueror's  conqueror 

And  a  new  flag  kissed  the  dawn, 
Till  another  banner  it  fell  before — 

And  the  fishermen  mended  on. 


A  FISHERMAN'S  PETITION  79 

So  the  kings  arose  and  the  kings  went  down 

And  the  new  kings  came  to  reign; 
And  the  flattened  plain  was  a  templed  town 

And  the  town  was  a  flattened  plain. 
And  the  ages  dawned  and  the  ages  died 

As  the  sun  that  rises,  sets — 
But  down  by  the  ebbing,  flowing  tide 

The  fishermen  mended  their  nets. 

We  will  take  this  world  in  our  youthful  hands, 

We  will  mould  this  world  anew, 
We  will  put  the  people  upon  their  lands — 

Oh !  many  the  things  to  do ! 
Then  the  high  hope  fails  that  we  hoped  to  be ; 

Then  the  end,  and  the  old  regrets. 
While  down  by  the  ebbing,  flowing  sea, 

The  fishermen  mend  their  nets. 

— Douglas  Malloch. 

A   FISHERMAN'S   PETITION 

O  Ananias !  Father  of  all  lies, 
Inspire  me  here  beneath  these  summer  skies, 
While  I  recline  among  mendacious  guys, 
That  I,  too,  may  depict  the  phantom  rise 
Of  that  "lost  fish"  of  most  enormous  size. 

Give  me  the  patience  to  sit  calmly  by, 
While  amateurs  with  veterans  gravely  vie, 
Recounting  deeds  performed  with  rod  and  fly. 
Then  help  me  tell  the  FINAL,  CROWNING  LIE! 

— C.  J.  Judd. 

Permission  of  "Outing  Magazine." 


80  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

TO  A  FISH  OF  THE  BROOK 

Why  fleest  thou  away  with  fear? 
Trust  me  there's  naught  of  danger  here ; 

I  have  no  wicked  hook 
All  covered  with  a  tempting  bait, 
Alas,  to  tempt  thee  to  thy  fate, 

And  drag  thee  from  the  brook. 

0  harmless  tenant  of  the  flood, 

1  do  not  wish  to  spill  thy  blood, 

For  Nature  unto  thee 
Perchance  has  given  a  tender  wife, 
And  children  dear,  to  charm  thy  life, 

As  she  hath  done  to  me. 

Enjoy  thy  stream,  O  harmless  fish ; 
And  when  an  angler  for  a  dish, 

Through  gluttony's  vile  sin, 
Attempts — a  wretch — to  pull  thee  out, 
God  give  thee  strength,  O  gentle  trout, 

To  pull  the  rascal  in! 

—John  Wolcot  ("Peter  Pindar'). 


FISHING 

I  take  my  patent  jointed  pole,  which  cost  me  quite 
a  hefty  roll,  and  hie  me  to  a  sylvan  nook,  infested  by 
a  babbling  brook,  and  there  I  sit,  a  patient  scout,  and 
fish,  and  fish,  and  fish  for  trout.  Oh,  my  equipment's 
out  of  sight,  in  each  detail  exactly  right.  Through 


A  BOY  AND  HIS  DAD 81 

Walton's  stuff  I  often  toil;  I  study  up  the  works  of 
Hoyle,  to  see  just  what  I  ought  to  buy,  what  kind  of 
bait,  what  sort  of  fly.  My  reel  and  sinkers  and  my  line 
imported  are,  and  vastly  fine.  I  bought  my  raiment 
at  a  shop  where  sporting  vestments  are  on  top.  And 
so  I  sit  and  fish  and  fish,  and  think  of  what  a  princely 
dish  we'll  have  at  home  when  I  return,  with  all  the 
troutlets  in  the  burn.  But  when  at  last  I  homeward 
go,  I  have  no  speckled  trout  to  show.  I  have  a  grouch, 
a  temper  sore,  my  costly  rig,  and  nothing  more.  And 
meantime  Johnson's  freckled  lad  goes  toiling  home- 
ward to  his  dad  all  burdened  with  a  string  of  trout  that 
weighs  a  ton,  or  thereabout.  He  caught  them  with  a 
pole  of  pine  to  which  was  tied  a  cotton  line.  In  agony 
my  voice  I  lift,  and  ask  you  whither  do  we  drift? 
There's  something  wrong  with  congress,  sirs,  when 
anything  like  this  occurs. 

— Walt  Mason. 

Copyrighted  by  George  Matthew  Adams,  1919. 


A  BOY  AND  HIS  DAD 

A  boy  and  his  dad  on  a  fishing-trip — 
There  is  a  glorious  fellowship ! 
Father  and  son  and  the  open  sky 
And  the  white  clouds  lazily  drifting  by, 
And  the  laughing  stream  as  it  runs  along 
With  the  clicking  reel  like  a  martial  song, 
And  the  father  teaching  the  youngster  gay 
How  to  land  a  fish  in  the  sportsman's  way. 

6 


82  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

I  fancy  I  hear  them  talking  there 
In  an  open  boat,  and  the  speech  is  fair; 
And  the  boy  is  learning  the  ways  of  men 
From  the  finest  man  in  his  youthful  ken. 
Kings,  to  the  youngster,  cannot  compare 
With  the  gentle  father  who's  with  him  there. 
And  the  greatest  mind  of  the  human  race 
Not  for  a  minute  could  take  his  place. 

Which  is  happier,  man  or  boy? 

The  soul  of  the  father  is  steeped  in  joy, 

For  he's  finding  out,  to  his  heart's  delight, 

That  his  son  is  fit  for  the  future  fight. 

He  is  learning  the  glorious  depths  of  him, 

And  the  thoughts  he  thinks  and  his  every  whim, 

And  he  shall  discover,  when  night  comes  on, 

How  close  he  has  grown  to  his  little  son. 

A  boy  and  his  dad  on  a  fishing-trip — 

Oh,  I  envy  them,  as  I  see  them  there 

Under  the  sky  in  the  open  air, 

For  out  of  the  old,  old  long-ago 

Come  the  summer  days  that  I  used  to  know, 

When  I  learned  life's  truths  from  my  father's  lips 

As  I  shared  the  joy  of  his  fishing-trips — 

Builders  of  life's  companionships! 

—Edgar  A.  Guest. 

From  "When  Day  is  Done."    Copyrighted  by  and  permission  from  Reilly 
&  Lee  Co. 


MEMORY  OF  THE  HALIBUT  83 

TO  THE  IMMORTAL  MEMORY  OF  THE  HALI- 
BUT ON  WHICH  I  DINED  THIS  DAY 

Where  hast  thou  floated,  in  what  seas  pursued 
Thy  pastime?  when  wast  thou  an  egg  new-spawned, 
Lost  in  th'  immensity  of  ocean's  waste  ? 
Roar  as  they  might,  the  overbearing  winds 
That  rocked  the  deep,  thy  cradle,  thou  wast  safe — 
And  in  thy  minikin  and  embryo  state, 
Attached  to  the  firm  leaf  of  some  salt  weed, 
Didst  outlive  tempests,  such  as  wrung  and  racked 
The  joints  of  many  a  stout  and  gallant  bark, 
And  whelmed  them  in  the  unexplored  abyss. 
Indebted  to  no  magnet  and  no  chart, 
Nor  under  guidance  of  the  polar  fire, 
Thou  wast  a  voyager  on  many  coasts, 
Grazing  at  large  in  meadows  submarine, 
Where  flat  Batavia  just  emerging  peeps 
Above  the  brine, — where  Caledonia's  rocks 
Beat  back  the  surge, — and  where  Hibernia  shoots 
Her  wondrous  causeway  far  into  the  main. 
—Wherever  thou  hast  fed,  thou  little  thought'st, 
And  I  not  more,  that  I  should  feed  on  thee. 
Peace  therefore,  and  good  health,  and  much  good  fish, 
To  him  who  sent  thee !  and  success,  as  oft 
As  it  descends  into  the  billowy  gulf, 
To  the  same  drag  that  caught  thee !    Fare  thee  well ! 
Thy  lot  thy  brethren  of  the  slimy  fin 
Would  envy,  could  they  know  that  thou  wast  doomed 
To  feed  a  bard,  and  to  be  praised  in  verse. 

— William  Cowper. 


84  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

WHEN  JENNY  COME  ALONG 

Fishin'  in  the  river,  an'  Jenny  come  along, 
Apern  full  of  flowers,  an'  singin'  of  a  song ; 
"Shame  to  ketch  them  fishes — cruel  'tis  an*  wrong!" 
That  wuz  what  she  tol'  me — when  Jenny  come  along. 

Fishin'  pole  wuz  noddin' — fish  a-pullin'  strong; 
Never  had  sich  luck  as  that,  when  Jenny  come  along; 
Knowed  she  wuz  a-comin',  by  the  blossoms  roun'  the 

place; 
Water,  like  a  lookin'-glass,  showin'  of  her  face. 

Wound  up  that  'ere  tackle — let  the  fishin'  go: 
Walked  with  her  through  meadows,  with  daisies  white 

as  snow; 
Wind  a-blowin'  in  my  face  the  bright  locks  round  her 

brow — 
Never  did  like  fishin'  in  a  river,  anyhow! 

— Frank  L.  Stanton. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 

FISH  STORIES 

What  do  the  little  fishes  do 
That  make  most  truthful  men  untrue, 
Whose  word  in  all's  as  good  as  gold 
Until  a  fishing  tale  is  told? 

A  five-inch  fish  my  friend  pulled  out — 
His  "monstrous  catch"  he  talked  about. 
To  give  its  size — oh  wondrous  charm! — 
He  measured  off  full  half  his  arm. 


SALMON  85 


It  was  a  most  elastic  fish, 
Would  stretch  as  far  as  he  could  wish. 
Each  time  he  told  the  fable  o'er 
The  fish  elongated  the  more. 

A  crowd  drew  round  to  hear  the  tale; 
It  last  became  a  little  whale. 
Its  length  he  showed  in  all  his  pride — 
His  arms  extended  clear  out  wide ! 

Must  he  now  give  account  for  lies 
Like  these,  somewhere  beyond  the  skies? 
Or  will  Saint  Peter  wink  his  eye, 
And  understand,  and  let  him  by  ? 

—Joseph  Morris. 

SALMON 

I 

The  fish  are  in  the  river 
Where  it  cuts  the  greening  hills ; 
And  the  murmur  of  the  water 
With  its  precious  secret  thrills. 
The  call  to  nature's  dearest 
Goes  forth  throughout  the  land — 
"Get  your  rod  and  tackle  ready 
For  the  salmon  are  on  hand." 

II 

The  pool  is  hoarding  treasure 
Where  the  rapid  fails  to  slack. 
See  the  swirl  upon  the  water ! 
There  a  big  one  showed  his  back. 


86  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Hear  the  poles  grit  on  the  gravel 
As  the  boat  is  forced  along! 
All  the  voices  of  the  river 
Sound  the  salmon  fisher's  song. 

Ill 

The  spray  is  wildly  scattered 
And  the  silver  lightning  gleams 
As  the  king  of  fish  leaps  upward 
From  the  rainbow-riven  streams. 
Get  your  Jocks  and  Silver  Doctors, 
Dose,  and  Dusty  Millers,  too, 
And  hasten  to  the  river 
For  the  North  is  calling  you 

To  the  click,  click,  clack, 

And  the  rick-a-t-tack, 
And  the  whirr  of  the  running  reel 

As  the  line  rips  out, 

Banishing  doubt — 

A  big  one,  by  the  "feel." 

— Dean  Sage. 

THE  THREE  FISHERS 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West, 
Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down; 

Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the 
town; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 


WHEN  THE  FISHING  BOATS  GO  OUT     87 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower, 
And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down, 

They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the 

shower, 
And  the  night  rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown ! 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep — 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

— Charles  Kingsley. 

WHEN  THE  FISHING  BOATS  GO  OUT 

When  the  lucent  skies  of  morning  flush  with  dawning 

rose  once  more, 
And  waves  of  golden  glory  break  adown  the  sunrise 

shore, 

And  o'er  the  arch  of  heaven  pied  films  of  vapor  float, 
There's  joyance  and  there's  freedom  when  the  fishing 

boats  go  out. 

The  wind  is  blowing  freshly  up  from  far,  uncharted 

caves, 
And  sending  sparkling  kisses  o'er  the  brows  of  virgin 

waves, 


88 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

While  routed  dawn-mists  shiver — oh,  far  and  fast  they 

flee, 
Pierced  by  the  shafts  of  sunrise  athwart  the  merry  sea ! 

Behind  us,  fair,  light-smitten  hills  in  dappled  splendor 

He, 

Before  us  the  wide  ocean  runs  to  meet  the  limpid  sky — 
Our  hearts  are  full  of  poignant  life,  and  care  has  fled 

afar 
As  sweeps  the  white-winged  fishing  fleet  across  the 

harbor  bar. 

The  sea  is  calling  to  us  in  a  blithesome  voice  and  free, 

There's  keenest  rapture  on  its  breast  and  boundless 
liberty! 

Each  man  is  master  of  his  craft,  its  gleaming  sails  out- 
blown, 

And  far  behind  him  on  the  shore  a  home  he  calls  his 
own. 

Salt  is  the  breath  of  ocean  slopes  and  fresher  blows 
the  breeze, 

And  swifter  still  each  bounding  keel  cuts  through  the 
combing  seas, 

Athwart  our  masts  the  shadows  of  the  dipping  sea- 
gulls float, 

And  all  the  water-world's  alive  when  the  fishing  boats 
go  out. 

— Lucy  M.  Montgomery. 

From  "The  Watchman  and  Other  Poems."    Permission  of  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Co. 


THE  ANGLER'S  CAROL 89 

THE  ANGLER'S  CAROL 

Our  sport  is  with  the  salmon  rod, 

Fine  gut,  tough  ravel  string, 
A  hook  of  the  true  "Kirby  bend," 

Dark-bodied  with  white  wing; 
Dark-bodied  with  white  wing,  my  boys! 

A  yellow  bob  behind, 
And  deep  red  hackle,  fastened  round 

With  tinsel  well  entwined. 

A  southwest  wind  that  steady  blows, 

A  dark-gray,  cloudy  sky, 
A  ripple  o'er  the  water  clear, 

To  lead  away  the  fly; 
To  lead  away  the  fly,  my  boys ! 

There,  strike!  the  reel  goes  free! 
With  a  new  run  fish,  as  fresh  and  strong 

As  ever  left  the  seas. 

The  yielding  rod  bends  like  a  bow, 

And  lifts  him  from  his  hold, 
With  quivering  pull  and  bounding  leap, 

Or  steady  run  so  bold : 
The  steady  run  so  bold,  my  boys ! 

As  thro'  the  stream  he  flies, 
Tells  with  what  energy  he  fights 

Before  a  salmon  dies. 

Reel  up,  reel  up!  one  sudden  plunge, 

He  takes  out  line  no  more, 
Head  down  the  stream!  then  haul  him  in! 

He  gasps  upon  the  shore ; 


90  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

He  gasps  upon  the  shore,  my  boys ! 

His  weight  an  English  stone, 
As  beautiful  a  thing  in  death 

As  eye  e'er  gazed  upon. 

The  sport  is  o'er,  and  home  we  go, 

A  bumper  round  we  bear, 
And  drink  "The  face  we  never  saw, 

But  may  it  prove  as  fair" ; 
But  may  it  prove  as  fair,  my  boys, 

Each  fisher  drinks  with  glee, 
And  benisons  to-morrow's  sport 

That  it  may  better  be. 

—W.  A.  Foster. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


THE  CONUNDRUM  OF  THE  AGES 

My  mind  confronts  a  riddle, 
Whenever  I  take  note, 
Of  the  fishing  tales  of  fellows, 
When  hard  luck  got  their  goat. 

My  sleep's  upset  by  anxious  doubt, 
Since  I  have  heard  the  tales, 
About  the  fish  that  slipped  away, 
"The  fellows  big  as  whales." 

I'm  in  a  fearful  quandary, 

What  can  a  fellow  do, 

When  every  friend  will  swear  on  oath, 

"A  monstrous  fish  slipped  through." 


THE  BAIT  91 


Now,  who  can  solve  my  problem, 
And  grant  my  lifelong  wish, 
"Are  fishermen  all  big  liars? 
Or  do  only  liars  fish?" 

— Theodore  Sharpe. 


THE  BAIT 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  some  new  pleasure  prove 
Of  golden  sands,  and  crystal  brooks, 
With  silken  lines  and  silver  hooks. 

There  will  the  river  whisp'ring  run, 
Warm'd  by  thy  eyes  more  than  the  sun ; 
And  there  th'  enamor'd  fish  will  stay, 
Begging  themselves  they  may  betray. 

When  thou  wilt  swim  in  that  live  bath, 
Each  fish,  which  every  channel  hath, 
Most  am'rously  to  thee  will  swim, 
Gladder  to  catch  thee,  than  thou  him. 

If  thou  to  be  so  seen  be'st  loath, 
By  sun,  or  moon,  thou  dark'nest  both; 
And  if  myself  have  leave  to  see, 
I  need  not  their  light,  having  thee. 

Let  others  freeze  with  angling  reeds, 
And  cut  their  legs  with  shells  and  weeds, 
Or  t reach' rously  poor  fish  beset, 
With  strangling  snare,  or  windowy  net: 


92  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Let  coarse  bold  hands,  from  slimy  nest, 
The  bedded  fish  in  banks  outwrest; 
Let  curious  traitors,  sleave-silk  flies, 
Bewitch  poor  fishes'  wand 'ring  eyes. 

For  thee,  thou  need'st  no  such  deceit, 
For  thou,  thyself,  art  thine  own  bait ; 
That  fish  that  is  not  catch'd  thereby, 
Alas!  is  wiser  far  than  I. 

— John  Donne. 

THE  SALMON  FLY 

See  here!  a  faded,  ragged,  salmon-fly, 
"Gitana,"  fitly  named — a  gypsy  queen, 

The  body  tinselled — gleaming  silverly, 
The  hackle — parrot  green. 

The  wings — ye  gods!  what  beauty — erst  macaw, 
Sky-blue,  enclosed  in  tippets  tawny  red; 

Beyond — to  end  of  hook  without  a  flaw, 
The  jungle-fowl  is  spread. 

And  over  all — a  golden  rain  of  rays, 

The  topping  droops,  with  fibers  blue  and  red, 

From  parrot's  sword — at  tail  a  topping's  blaze, 
An  ostrich  herl  at  head. 

Thus  was  "Gitana"  when  I  made  her  first, 
A  vision  of  delight  'neath  spring-blue  skies; 

A  poem  bright  of  color  all  unversed — 
Empress  of  salmon  flies. 


THE  SALMON  FLY 93 

And  bright  the  morning  on  that  crag-bound  stream, 
In  Scotia — rugged  land  of  rock  and  fell; 

When  like  a  bar  of  light  the  fish  did  gleam; 
And  rose  with  mighty  swell, 

Taking  "Gitana"  in  her  rich-robed  pride, 

Whilst  I,  nerve-shaken,  sought  to  stay  his  course — 

As  well  try  stay  the  torrent's  mighty  tide, 
Or  rein  the  proud  wild  horse. 

Like  arrowy  lightning's  flash  he  sped  to  deeps 
That  hid  the  caverns  of  his  fastness — there 

Sharp  juts  of  rock  on  rock  lay  piled  in  heaps 
To  form  the  salmon's  lair. 

(Here  in  the  somber  shadows,  fathoms  down, 
Sir  Salmo  Salar  spoilt  "Gitana's"  dress, 

Rubbing  his  nose  against  his  door-post  brown, 
Till  hook  held  less  and  less.) 

At  last,  with  furious  rush  and  buoyant  plunge, 
High  out  in  air  his  burnished  form  he  throws, 

And  falling  on  the  line  with  mighty  lunge, 
Free  once  again  he  goes ! 

And  thus  "Gitana"  faded  and  undone — 
Unlucky  nymph — recalls  his  summer  night, 

A  lusty  wooer  lured,  but  all  unwon — 
Her  lover  and  his  flight. 


94  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Earth's  mightiest,  great  fish!  have  worshiped  thee 
And  leaving  learning  and  the  cares  of  state, 
Have  sought  the  river's  side,  with  joy  elate, 

To  woo  thee  from  thy  home  so  wild  and  free. 

From  Orient  climes  they  bring  the  jewelled  plume  — 
Each  bird  of  sunshine  and  each  bird  of  storm  — 

The  bustard  from  Siberian  frost  and  gloom  ; 

The  mighty  condor  —  e'en  Cathay's  rare  worm! 

All  vie  in  luring  thee  unto  thy  doom. 

And  if  perchance,  then,  seeing  the  bright  gem 
That  glitters  to  thine  eye,  thou  yieldst  thy  life  — 

Men  have  done  more  for  less  —  and  like  to  them, 
Thou  passest  only  from  this  mundane  strife  ! 
—J.  Harrington  Keene 


WHEN  A  BASS  GETS  ON  MY  LINE 

When  the  springtime's  o'er  me  stealing, 

And  my  heart  is  often  thrilled 
With  the  overflow  of  feeling 

With  which  the  world  is  filled, 
There  can  be  no  joy  or  privilege 

That's  comparable  to  mine 
When  I  have  a  seven-pounder 

At  the  end  of  hook  and  line. 

I  have  tasted  all  the  pleasures 

That  the  wells  of  life  afford; 
I  have  feasted  on  the  bounties 

That  the  world  delights  to  hoard; 


WHEN  A  BASS  GETS  ON  MY  LINE        95 

But  I'd  leave  the  festal  table, 

With  its  wealth  of  ruby  wine, 
To  feel  a  seven-pounder 

"Cutting  capers"  with  my  line. 

I  have  been  inspired  by  music 

By  the  masters  in  the  art ; 
I  have  listened  to  the  eloquence 

Of  intellect  and  heart ; 
But  no  melody  enchants  me 

With  its  harmony  divine, 
Akin  to  that  which  follows 

When  a  bass  gets  on  my  line. 

There  is  music  in  the  woodlands, 

When  the  summer  lingers  there; 
There  are  carols  in  the  meadows, 

When  the  skies  are  blue  and  fair; 
But  all  these  charms  of  nature 

I  would  willingly  resign, 
To  hear  the  hum  of  reeling 

When  a  bass  gets  on  my  line. 

There  is  nothing  nearer  heaven, 

When  a  fellow's  tired  quite, 
Just  patiently  awaiting 

For  a  fish  to  come  and  bite, 
To  have  your  rod  bent  double 

By  a  bass,  with  mad  design,  . 
And  feel  a  seven-pounder 

Fiercely  tugging  at  your  line. 


96 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

If  I  should  get  to  heaven, 

I  presume  I'd  want  to  know 
What  the  chances  are  for  fishing — 

Like  the  sport  I  knew  below — 
For,  though  'mid  joys  supernal, 

I  would  certainly  repine 
For  a  day  upon  the  river 

And  a  bass  upon  my  line. 

—James  Robert  Allen. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


THE  ANGLER'S  BENEDICTION 

Bless  me  with  the  spring-tide  bland, 

All  ye  anglers  of  the  valley ! 
Wave  aloof  the  slender  wand, 

And  around  the  oak-tree  rally. 

Bless  the  birds,  that  all  along 
Send  us  such  a  cheerful  greeting ; 

To  their  measures  of  kind  song 
Joyously  our  hearts  are  beating. 

Fleeted  now  the  winter  snow 
From  the  forehead  of  the  mountains, 

And  the  wild  sweet  waters  flow 

Freshly  through  their  several  fountains. 

In  the  secret  of  the  sod, 
Moss  and  primrose  lie  together; 

But  the  wild  bee  shoots  abroad, 
Fonder  of  the  April  heather. 


THE  BOY  ANGLER 97 

Fresh  and  free  the  breezes  blow, 
And  the  amber  stream  runs  gaily; 

Forth,  and  warble  as  ye  go, 
All  ye  anglers  of  the  valley! 

-Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 

THE  BOY  ANGLER 

Under  the  bridge  that  spans  the  stream- 
Stream  that  gurgles  and  prattles  away, 

Stream  that  flashes  with  many  a  gleam — 
The  boy  would  pass  the  holiday. 

I  wonder  if  ever  in  all  the  earth 
A  happier  heart  warm'd  human  breast; 

If  ever  such  perfect,  such  rapturous  mirth, 
Was  known  as  in  that  Eden  blest ! 

I  wonder  if  ever  a  gorgeous  king, 
In  midst  of  all  his  jewell'd  court, 

Royal  with  scepter  and  crown  and  ring, 
Had  ever  such  rich,  ecstatic  sport. 

The  bridge  was  ancient  with  log  and  beam, 
And  over  it  droop' d  the  willow  trees, 

Dipping  their  catkins  in  the  stream, 
Asylum  for  fluttering  birds  and  bees ; 

And  here  in  this  dim,  secluded  cave 

The  boy  would  come  to  muse  o'er  the  wave. 

He  mus'd,  for  he  lov'd  all  beauteous  sights, 
All  sounds  delicious  that  charm'd  the  place; 

The  insects  gay,  small  water-sprites, 
That  skimm'd  and  circled  in  mazy  race; 


98 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  water-ouzel  flitting  there, 

The  blue  kingfisher,  perch'd  on  spray, 
Then  dropping  quick  from  leafy  lair, 

Shrill  screaming  as  he  seiz'd  his  prey. 
And  here  the  poor  barefooted  boy, 

With  tatter 'd  jerkin  and  hat  of  straw, 
Enjoyed  the  bliss,  the  speechless  joy, 

The  angler's  rapture,  without  a  flaw. 
He  watch'd  the  minnows'  quivering  fin, 

And  silvery  perch  go  swimming  by, 
The  sunfish  darting  out  and  in, 

The  pickerel  snap  at  the  gaudy  fly ; 
The  little  shiner,  like  diamond  spark, 
Shoot  through  the  waters  deep  and  dark, 
And  the  trout,  like  glancing  Indian  shaft, 
Defying  even  his  cunning  craft. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  note  the  frog 
That  sat  open-mouth' d  on  a  weedy  log; 
To  note  the  turtles,  all  speckled  o'er, 
Bask  on  the  slippery  rocks  of  the  shore; 
The  muskrats  paddling  in  sluggish  play, 
And  mink  and  the  otter  on  their  way. 

It  was  pleasant  when  hot  midsummer  days 
Scorch'd  earth  and  air  with  fervid  blaze, 
When  the  very  atmosphere  seem'd  to  swoon 
With  the  drowsy  influence  of  the  noon, 
To  sit  in  his  hermit  cell  and  share 
The  voices  of  nature  in  the  air; 
The  chirp  of  the  cricket  in  the  grass, 


SPORT  ROYAL  99 


.The  snap  of  the  grasshoppers  as  they  pass, 
The  anthems  of  song-birds  in  the  hedge, 
The  whistle  of  snipe  across  the  sedge, 
And  all  the  entrancing  symphonies 
Of  breeze  and  of  wave,  of  birds  and  bees — 
All  paintings  of  nature's  matchless  art, 
All  music  of  nature  that  thrills  the  heart. 

—Isaac  McLellan. 

THE  HONEST  ANGLER 

That  man  is  happy  in  his  share, 
Who  is  warm  clad,  and  cleanly  fed, 

Whose  necessaries  bound  his  care, 
And  honest  labor  makes  his  bed; 

Who,  with  his  angle  and  his  books, 
Can  think  the  longest  day  well  spent, 

And  praises  God  when  back  he  looks, 
And  finds  that  all  was  innocent. 

— Charles  Cotton. 

SPORT  ROYAL 
(Allegro  Vivace) 

A  nook  forsook, 

A  goodly  brook, 

A  woodland  not  too  dense: 

A  fly,  a  try, 

An  eager  eye, 

Anticipation  tense. 


100  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

A  fleck,  a  speck, 

A  straining  neck, 

A  momentary  gleam, 

A  flash,  a  splash, 

A  sudden  dash 

A-down  the  swirling  stream. 

A  chill,  a  thrill, 

A  tugging  still, 

A  quivering  of  the  steel, 

A  list,  a  twist, 

An  aching  wrist, 

A  fumbling  at  the  reel. 

A  strive,  a  dive, 
The  waters  rive, 
Alas,  the  game  is  gone ! 
A  lunge,  a  plunge, 
All  doubts  expunge: 
A  glorious  fight  is  on. 

At  last,  aghast, 

The  quarry  fast, 

Still  struggling  in  the  stream, 

Gives  yet  a  threat, 

And  then  the  net 

Secures  a  speckled  dream. 

—William  E.  Hundley. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


HAMPSHIRE  FLY-FISHING  101 

HAMPSHIRE  FLY-FISHING 

Dry-Fly 

These  two  are  exact  descriptions  of  the  two  totally  different 
styles. 

One,  two,  three !  and  the  wavy  line 

Backward  and  forward  flies, 
Four!  and  there  falls,  as  a  gossamer  light, 

On  the  further  ring  of  the  rise, 
My  gay  quill-fly,  with  her  wings  so  dry, 

And  she  sails  on  the  flowing  stream 
As  a  nautilus  sails  on  a  summer  sea, 

Or  a  fairy  floats  in  a  dream! 

True  is  the  cast,  and  she  wings  her  way 

In  a  line  as  straight  and  true, 
Thro'  the  widening  rings,  as  the  famous  "line" 

Cuts  the  sphere  of  the  world  in  two! 
But  oh!  she  has  reached  the  nearer  ring, 

And  is  unmolested  still ! 
And  she  sails  along  with  a  doleful  song, 

"Ah,  me,  I  have  failed  to  kill!" 

One,  two,  three!  and  she  falls  again, 

And  she  says  to  Sir  Trout,  "O  pray 
Don't  let  me  escape  as  my  sister  did, 

Who  passed  just  now  this  way!" 
But  ah!  that  she  thus  comes  sailing  on, 

Proves  that  the  prayer  was  vain ! 
Sir  Trout  is  at  least  of  doubtful  mind; 

Well,  well,  let  us  try  him  again! 


102 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

One,  two,  three! — not  a  shade  of  doubt 

That  the  fly  is  right  to  a  shade ! 
Nor  more  like  that  he  is  rising  at 

Could  any  quill-gnat  be  made ! 
So  now,  my  friend,  like  an  auctioneer, 

I'll  wait  for  your  little  bid! 
Tis  going,  going,  going— gone! 

Ha!  ha! — 'twas  well  I  did! 

So  ho!  so  ho!    Don't  hurry  away 

With  my  goods  to  your  weedy  home, 
Like  a  common  thief! — there's  the  bill  to  pay! 

So  come,  my  beauty,  come ! 
So  ho!  hysterics  are  out  of  place! 

Let  me  lead  you  gently,  so! 
Ha!  would  you  escape?  turn  back,  my  friend, 

That  isn't  the  way  to  go! 

So  ho!  so  ho!    You're  faint,  I  see, 

And  needing  a  little  rest ! 
Here's  a  nice  little  room,  will  fit  you  well, 

In  which  you  make  your  nest ! 
Don't  make  such  a  fuss !  lie  down,  lie  down ! 

That's  better !    Come  here  to  me 
On  this  grassy  bank,  and  hear  from  my  lips 

How  proud  I  am  of  thee ! 

— Cotswold  Isys. 


NORTH  COUNTRY  FLY-FISHING        103 

NORTH  COUNTRY  FLY-FISHING 
Wet-Fly 

Let  your  Southron  stand  with  rod  in  hand, 

Fishing  as  in  a  dream, 
In  his  one  green  meadow,  the  morning  long, 

By  his  clear,  still,  chalky  stream ; 
But  ever  let  me  in  the  North  Countree, 

Wander  my  burn  beside, 
Where  it  winds  thro'  the  mead  and  the  rocky  gorge, 

And  the  moorland  wild  and  wide ! 

No  thresher  am  I  of  the  vexed  air, 

Of  your  quiet,  mantling  pools, 
Who  stands  for  an  hour  on  the  same  green  sod, 

'Mid  a  crowd  of  gaping  fools; 
Changing  each  little  failing  fly, 

Till  all  in  his  book  are  tried; 
My  one  good  cast  for  a  day  will  last, 

And  on  with  my  wand  I  stride ! 

Stretcher  and  dropper,  one,  two,  three,  four, 

With  flies  of  various  hue — 
Meeting  the  taste  of  the  connoisseur 

With  yellow,  green,  brown,  or  blue — 
I  fling,  with  a  shortened  line,  across 

The  swirling,  eddying  burn, 
Drawing  them  tenderly  toward  my  bank, 

With  a  delicate-handed  turn. 


104  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

They  sink,  and  they  swirl,  and  I  cannot  see 

My  flies;  but  my  hand  can  feel, 
My  hands  are  the  eyes  that  see  the  rise, 

My  vision  is  in  my  reel ! 
Let  the  Southron  look,  like  a  boy  on  his  book, 

For  his  still-stream,  dimpled  ring ; 
Tis  the  hand  that  can  see  in  the  North  Countree, 

And  hear  when  the  reel  doth  sing ! 

I  feel  the  pulse  of  the  burn's  bent  arm, 

Where  it  lies  on  the  gravelly  strand; 
And  under  the  shade  of  the  beechen  boughs, 

I  deftly  ply  my  wand; 
But  most  I  love  the  eddying  pools 

At  the  foot  of  the  rock-toss'd  foam, 
For  the  fat  and  the  fair  of  the  stream  are  there 

For  the  morning  calls  "at  home!" 

Thus  on  I  go  from  shallow  to  pool, 

And  from  pool  to  shallow  again ! 
And  all  is  change,  and  all  is  life, 

Moor,  meadow,  and  gorge  and  glen! 
Thus  keeping  step  with  my  flowing  burn, 

My  happy  moments  steal, 
And  ne'er  do  I  pause,  save  when  I've  cause 

To  add  to  my  filling  creel. 

— Costwold  Isys. 


TO  MY  TROUT  ROD        105 


TO  MY  TROUT  ROD 

Dear  comrade  of  my  blissful  hours, 

New  joys  again  we'll  borrow; 
If  skies  are  clear  or  weather  lowers, 

We  seek  the  brook  to-morrow. 

Where  you  and  I,  my  comrade  dear, 

Have  wandered  far  together, 
In  many  a  happy  begone  year, 

In  every  kind  of  weather. 

For  dreary  skies  we  cared  no  rush, 

And  oft  despised  their  warning ; 
And  if  they  smiled,  then  with  the  thrush 

We  thrilled  a  song  at  morning. 

And  where  was  care  when  we  were  out 

And  by  the  stream  a-fishing — 
Save  when  we  hooked  the  day's  first  trout 

For  more  we  fell  a-wishing  ? 

Again,  old  friend,  with  cheery  pluck 

We'll  fling  the  barbed  feather; 
Kind  shade  of  Walton!  grant  us  luck, 

And  we'll  not  mind  the  weather. 

— George  Douglas. 


106  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


KETCHIN'  PICK'REL 

Some  people  call  it  pick'rel  and  some  others  call  it  pike. 
That  is  all  the  same  to  me,  they  can  call  it  what  they 

like. 

The  name  don't  cut  no  figger;  all  I  care  about  is  this: 
That  when  you  git  one  on  your  line  it's  seven  kinds  of 

bliss. 

I  don't  want  to  ketch  no  tarpon  that  weighs  a  half  a  ton. 
And  feedin'  clams  to  sheepshead  isn't  just  what  I  call 

fun. 
Of  salmon  when  it's  boiled  or  baked  I'll  say  that  I  am 

fond — 
But  when  I'm  after  sport  I  fish  for  pick'rel  in  a  pond. 

I  don't  use  no  fuss  and  feathers  tied  on  those  little 

hooks, 
All  red  and  white  and  green  and  blue  that  come  in 

fancy  books. 

And  multiplyin'  reels  and  sich  don't  cut  no  ice  with  me 
Or  dinky  castin'  rods  that  land  your  tackle  in  a  tree. 

A  chunk  of  pork  or  old  red  shirt,  a  minny  or  a  frog ; 
A  corncob  pipe,  some  good  black  jack,  a  dry  seat  on 

a  log. 
Just  give  me  those  old-fashioned  tools  is  all  I  ask  or 

wish, 
Then  if  you'll  come  along  with  me  I'll  show  you  how 

to  fish. 


THE  TROUT  BROOK  107 

If  you  let  your  frog  drift  over  beneath  that  lily  pad 

Some  old  pick'rel  there  may  see  it  who  wants  his  break- 
fast bad. 

You  don't  have  to  do  no  trampin',  or  cussin'  sky  blue 
flies, 

That  you  slam  in  all  directions  but  never  git  a  rise. 

Let  the  pick'rel  do  the  guessin'  while  you  squat  there 

and  think, 

And  fill  the  corncob  pipe  again  and  take  another  drink. 
There  ain't  no  call  for  hurry,  you  don't  have  to  ketch 

no  train, 
For  if  there's  nothin'  doin'  you  kin  hit  the  jug  again. 

By-and-by  your  float  will  wiggle  and  then  go  out  of 

sight — 
That's  the  time  you  git  a  move  on  and  soak  that 

pick'rel  right. 
When  you've  got  him  on  the  bank  you'll  agree  with  me 

in  this: 

That  ketchin'  pick'rel  in  a  pond  is  seven  kinds  of  bliss. 

—Norman  Jeffries. 

THE  TROUT  BROOK 

You  see  it  first  near  the  dusty  road, 
Where  the  farmer  stops  with  his  heavy  load 

At  the  foot  of  a  weary  hill ; 
There  the  mossy  trough  it  overflows, 
Then  away  with  a  leap  and  a  laugh,  it  goes 

At  its  own  sweet,  wandering  will. 


108 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

It  flows  through  an  orchard  gnarled  and  old, 
Where  in  spring  the  dainty  buds  unfold 

Their  petals  pink  and  white ; 
The  apple  blossoms  so  sweet  and  pure, 
The  streamlet's  smiles  and  songs  allure, 

To  float  off  on  the  ripples  bright. 

It  winds  through  the  meadow  scarcely  seen, 
For  o'er  it  the  flowers  and  grasses  lean 

To  salute  its  smiling  face. 
And  thus,  half  hidden,  it  ripples  along, 
The  whole  way  singing  its  summer  song, 

Making  glad  each  arid  place. 

Just  there,  where  the  water  dark  and  cool 
Lingers  a  moment  in  yonder  pool, 

The  dainty  trout  are  at  play; 
And  now  and  then  one  leaps  in  sight, 
With  sides  aglow  in  the  golden  light 

Of  the  long,  sweet  summer  day. 

O  back  to  their  shelves  those  books  consign, 
And  look  to  your  rod  and  reel  and  line, 

Make  fast  the  feathered  hook; 
Then  away  from  the  town  with  its  hum  of  life, 
Where  the  air  with  worry  and  work  is  rife, 

To  the  charms  of  the  meadow  brook ! 

—Carl  Waring. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


UP  AND  DOWN  OLD  BRANDYWINE    109 

UP  AND  DOWN  OLD  BRANDYWINE 

Up  and  down  old  Brandywine, 

In  the  days  'at's  past  and  gone — 
With  a  dad-burn  hook-and-line 
And  a  saplin'-pole — i  swawn ! 

I've  had  more  fun,  to  the  square 
Inch,  than  ever  anywhere ! 
Heaven  to  come  can't  discount  mine, 
Up  and  down  old  Brandywine ! 

Hain't  no  sense  in  wishiri — yit 
Wisht  to  goodness  I  could  jes' 
"Gee"  the  blame'  world  round  and  git 
Back  to  that  old  happiness  !— 

Kind  o'  drive  back  in  the  shade 
"The  old  Covered  Bridge"  there  laid 
'Crosst  the  crick,  and  sort  o'  soak 
My  soul  over,  hub  and  spoke ! 

Honest,  now ! — it  hain't  no  dream 

'At  I'm  wantin',  but  the  fa.cs 
As  they  wuz ;  the  same  old  stream, 
And  the  same  old  times,  i  jacks! — 
Gimme  back  my  bare  feet — and 
Stonebruise  too! — And  scratched  and  tanned! — 
And  let  hottest  dog-days  shine 
Up  and  down  old  Brandywine! 

In  and  on  betwixt  the  trees 

'Long  the  banks,  pour  down  yer  noon, 
Kind  o'  curdled  with  the  breeze 

And  the  yallerhammer's  tune; 


110  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  the  smokin',  chokin'  dust 

O'  the  turnpike  at  its  wusst — 

Saturdays,  say,  when  it  seems 

Road's  jes'  jammed  with  country  teams! 

Whilst  the  old  town,  fur  away 

'Ciosst  the  hazy  pastur'-land, 
Dozed-like  in  the  heat  o'  day 
Peaceful'  as  a  hired  hand. 

Jolt  the  gravel  th'ough  the  floor 
O'  the  ole  bridge ! — grind  and  roar 
With  yer  blame'  percession-line— 
Up  and  down  old  Brandy  wine! 

Souse  me  and  my  new  straw  hat 

Off  the  foot-log! — what  /  care?— 
Fist  shoved  in  the  crown  o'  that— 
Like  the  old  Clown  ust  to  wear. — 
Wouldn't  swop  it  fer  a'  old 
Gin-u-wine  raal  crown  o'  gold ! — 
Keep  yer  King  ef  you'll  gim-me 
Jes'  the  boy  I  ust  to  be! 

Spill  my  fishin'-worms !  er  steal 

My  best  "goggle-eye!" — but  you 
Can't  lay  hands  on  joys  I  feel 
Nibblin'  like  they  ust  to  do! 
So,  in  memory,  to-day 
Same  old  ripple  lips  away 
At  my  "cork"  and  saggin'  line, 
Up  and  down  old  Brandy  wine! 


UP  AND  DOWN  OLD  BRAND YWINE    111 

There  the  logs  is,  round  the  hill, 
Where  "Old  Irvin"  ust  to  lift 
Out  sunfish  from  daylight  till 

Dewfall — 'fore  he'd  leave  "The  Drift" 
And  give  us  a  chance — and  then 
Kind  o'  fish  back  home  again, 
Ketchin'  'em  jes'  left  and  right 
Where  we  hadn't  got  "a  bite" ! 

Er,  'way  windin'  out  and  in, — 

Old  path  th'ough  the  iurnweeds 
And  dog-fennel  to  yer  chin — 

Then  come  suddent,  th'ough  the  reeds 
And  cattails,  smack  into  where 
Them-air  woods-hogs  ust  to  scare 
Us  clean  'crosst  the  County-line, 
Up  and  down  old  Brandy  wine ! 

But  the  dim  roar  o'  the  dam 

It  'ud  coax  us  furder  still 
To'rds  the  old  race,  slow  and  ca'm, 
Slidin'  on  to  Huston's  mill — 

Where,  I  'spect,  "the  Freeport  crowd" 
Never  warmed  to  us  er  'lowed 
We  wuz  quite  so  overly 
Welcome  as  we  aimed  to  be. 

Still  it  'peared-like  ever' thing — 

Fur  away  from  home  as  there — 
Had  more  relish-like,  i  jing! — 

Fish  in  stream,  er  bird  in  air ! 


U2 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

O  them  rich  old  bottom-lands, 

Past  where  Cowden's  School-house  stands ! 

Wortermelons — master-mine! 

Up  and  down  old  Brandy  wine ! 

And  sich  pop-paws! — Lumps  o'  raw 

Gold  and  green, — jes'  oozy  th'ough 
With  ripe  yaller — like  you've  saw 
Custard-pie  with  no  crust  to: 

And  jes'  gorges  o'  wild  plums, 
Till  a  feller'd  suck  his  thumbs 
Clean  up  to  his  elbows!    My! — 
Me  some  more  er  lem  me  die! 

Up  and  down  old  Brandy  wine! 

Stripe  me  with  pokeberry-juice! — 
Flick  me  with  a  pizen-vine 
And  yell  "Yip!"  and  lem  me  loose! 
— Old  now  as  I  then  wuz  young, 
'F  I  could  sing  as  I  have  sung, 
Song  'ud  shorely  ring  dee-vine 
Up  and  down  old  Brandy  wine! 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


From  the  Biographical  Edition  of  the  Complete  Works  of  James  Whitcom 
Riley,  copyright,  1913.  Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  Th 
Bobbs-Merrill  Co. 


The 


THE  FIRST  FISHERMAN  113 


FISH 

O  scaly,  slippery,  wet,  swift,  staring  wights, 

What  is  't  ye  do?    What  life  lead?  oh,  dull  goggles? 

How  do  ye  vary  your  vile  days  and  nights? 

How  pass  your  Sundays?    Are  ye  still  but  joggles 

In  ceaseless  wash?    Still  nought  but  gapes  and  bites, 
And  drinks,  and  stares,  diversified  with  boggles? 

—Leigh  Hunt. 

From  "The  Fish,  the  Man,  and  the  Spirit." 


THE  FIRST  FISHERMAN 

Beside  a  vast  and  primal  sea 
A  solitary  savage  he, 

Who  gathered  for  his  tribe's  rude  need 
The  daily  dole  of  raw  sea-weed. 

He  watched  the  great  tides  rise  and  fall 
And  spoke  the  truth — or  not  at  all ! 

Along  the  awful  shore  he  ran 
A  simple  pre-Pelasgian ; 

A  thing  primeval,  undefiled, 
Straightforward  as  a  little  child, — 

Until  one  morn  he  made  a  grab 
And  caught  a  mesozoic  crab ! 


114  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Then — told  the  tribe  at  close  of  day 
A  bigger  one  had  got  away ! 

From  him  have  sprung  (I  own  a  bias 
To  ways  the  cult  of  rod  and  fly  has) 
All  fishermen — and  Ananias ! 

— Patrick  Chalmers. 

From  "Green  Days  and  Blue  Days,"  The  Norman,  Remington  Co. 


FISHING 

As  in  successive  course  the  seasons  roll, 
So  circling  pleasures  recreate  the  soul. 
When  genial  spring  a  living  warmth  bestows, 
And  o'er  the  year  her  verdant  mantle  throws, 
No  swelling  inundation  hides  the  grounds, 
But  crystal  currents  glide  within  their  bounds; 
The  finny  brood  their  wonted  haunts  forsake, 
Float  in  the  sun,  and  skim  along  the  lake, 
With  frequent  leap  they  range  the  shallow  streams, 
Their  silver  coats  reflect  the  dazzling  beams. 
Now  let  the  fisherman  his  toils  prepare, 
And  arm  himself  with  every  watery  snare; 
His  hooks,  his  lines,  peruse  with  careful  eye, 
Increase  his  tackle,  and  his  rod  re-tie. 

When  floating  clouds  their  spongy  fleeces  drain, 
Troubling  the  streams  with  swift-descending  rain, 
And  waters,  tumbling  down  the  mountain's  side, 
Bear  the  loose  soil  into  the  swelling  tide, 
Then,  soon  as  vernal  gales  begin  to  rise, 
And  drive  the  liquid  burden  through  the  skies, 


FISHING  115 


The  fisher  to  the  neighboring  current  speeds, 
Whose  rapid  surface  purls,  unknown  to  weeds; 
Upon  a  rising  border  of  the  brook 
He  sits  him  down,  and  ties  the  treacherous  hook. 
Now  expectation  cheers  his  eager  thought, 
His  bosom  glows  with  treasures  yet  uncaught; 
Before  his  eyes  a  banquet  seems  to  stand, 
Where  every  guest  applauds  his  skilful  hand. 

Far  up  the  stream  the  twisted  hair  he  throws, 
Which  down  the  murmuring  current  gently  flows ; 
When,  if  or  chance  or  hunger's  powerful  sway 
Directs  the  roving  trout  this  fatal  way, 
He  greedily  sucks  in  the  twining  bait, 
And  tugs  and  nibbles  the  fallacious  meat ; 
Now,  happy  fisherman,  now  twitch  the  line ! 
How  the  rod  bends !  behold,  the  prize  is  thine ! 
Cast  on  the  bank,  he  dies  with  gasping  pains, 
And  trickling  blood  his  silver  mail  distains. 

You  must  not  every  worm  promiscuous  use ; 
Judgment  will  tell  the  proper  bait  to  choose; 
The  worm  that  draws  a  long  immoderate  size 
The  trout  abhors,  and  the  rank  morsel  flies ; 
And  if  too  small,  the  naked  fraud's  in  sight, 
And  fear  forbids,  while  hunger  doth  invite. 
Those  baits  will  best  reward  the  fisher's  pains, 
Whose  polish'd  tails  a  shining  yellow  stains. 
Cleanse  them  from  filth,  to  give  a  tempting  gloss, 
Cherish  the  sullied  reptile  race  with  moss; 
Amid  the  verdant  bed  they  twine,  they  toil, 
And  from  their  bodies  wipe  their  native  soil. 


116  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

But  when  the  sun  displays  his  glorious  beams, 
And  shallow  rivers  flow  with  silver  streams, 
Then  the  deceit  the  scaly  breed  survey, 
Bask  in  the  sun,  and  look  into  the  day. 
You  now  a  more  delusive  art  must  try, 
And  tempt  their  hunger  with  the  curious  fly. 

To  frame  the  little  animal,  provide 
All  the  gay  hues  that  wait  on  female  pride: 
Let  Nature  guide  thee;  sometimes  golden  wire 
The  shining  bellies  of  the  fly  require; 
The  peacock's  plumes  thy  tackle  must  not  fail, 
Nor  the  dear  purchase  of  the  sable's  tail. 
Each  gaudy  bird  some  slender  tribute  brings, 
And  lends  the  growing  insect  proper  wings: 
Silks  of  all  colors  must  their  aid  impart, 
And  every  fur  promote  the  fisher's  art. 
So  the  gay  lady,  with  expansive  care, 
Borrows  the  pride  of  land,  of  sea,  and  air; 
Furs,  pearls,  and  plumes,  the  glittering  thing  displays, 
Dazzles  our  eyes,  and  easy  hearts  betrays. 

Mark  well  the  various  seasons  of  the  year, 
How  the  succeeding  insect  race  appear ; 
In  this  revolving  moon  one  color  reigns, 
Which  in  the  next  the  fickle  trout  distains. 
Oft  have  I  seen  a  skilful  angler  try 
The  various  colors  of  the  treacherous  fly ; 
When  he  with  fruitless  pain  hath  skimm'd  the  brook, 
And  the  coy  fish  rejects  the  skipping  hook, 
He  shakes  the  boughs  that  on  the  margin  grow, 
Which  o'er  the  stream  a  waving  forest  throw; 


FISHING  117 


When,  if  an  insect  fall  (his  certain  guide), 

He  gently  takes  him  from  the  whirling  tide ; 

Examines  well  his  form,  with  curious  eyes, 

His  gaudy  vest,  his  wings,  his  horns,  and  size. 

Then  round  his  hook  the  chosen  fur  he  winds, 

And  on  the  back  a  speckled  feather  binds ; 

So  just  the  colors  shine  through  every  part, 

That  Nature  seems  to  live  again  in  Art. 

Let  not  thy  wary  step  advance  too  near, 

While  all  thy  hope  hangs  on  a  single  hair. 

The  new- form' d  insect  on  the  water  moves, 

The  speckled  trout  the  curious  snare  approv 

Upon  the  curling  surface  let  it  glide, 

With  natural  motion  from  thy  hand  supplied; 

Against  the  stream  now  let  it  gently  play, 

Now  in  the  rapid  eddy  roll  away. 

The  scaly  shoals  float  by,  and  seiz'd  with  fear, 

Behold  their  fellows  tossed  in  thinner  air; 

But  soon  they  leap,  and  catch  the  swimming  bait, 

Plunge  on  the  hook,  and  share  an  equal  fate. 

When  a  brisk  gale  against  the  current  blows, 
And  all  the  watery  plain  in  wrinkles  flows, 
Then  let  the  fisherman  his  art  repeat, 
Where  bubbling  eddies  favor  the  deceit. 
If  an  enormous  salmon  chance  to  spy 
The  wanton  errors  of  the  floating  fly, 
He  lifts  the  silver  gills  above  the  flood, 
And  greedily  sucks  in  the  unfaithful  food ; 
Then  downward  plunges  with  the  fraudful  prey, 
And  bears  with  joy  the  little  spoil  away. 


118  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Soon,  in  smart  pain,  he  feels  the  dire  mistake, 
Lashes  the  wave,  and  beats  the  foamy  lake; 
With  sudden  rage  he  now  aloft  appears, 
And  in  his  eye  convulsive  anguish  bears; 
And  now  again,  impatient  of  the  wound, 
He  rolls  and  wreathes  his  shining  body  round; 
Then  headlong  shoots  beneath  the  dashing  tide, 
The  trembling  fins  the  boiling  wave  divide. 
Now  hope  exalts  the  fisher's  beating  heart, 
Now  he  turns  pale,  and  fears  his  dubious  art ; 
He  views  the  tumbling  fish  with  longing  eyes, 
While  the  line  stretches  with  the  unwieldly  prize ; 
Each  motion  humors  with  his  steady  hands, 
And  one  slight  hair  the  mighty  bulk  commands ; 
Till  tired  at  last,  despoil' d  of  all  his  strength, 
The  game  athwart  the  stream  unfolds  his  length. 
He  now  with  pleasure  views  the  gasping  prize 
Gnash  his  sharp  teeth,  and  roll  his  bloodshot  eyes ; 
Then  draws  him  to  the  shore,  with  artful  care, 
And  lifts  his  nostrils  in  the  sickening  air; 
Upon  the  burden'd  stream  he  floating  lies, 
Stretches  his  quivering  fins,  and  gasping  dies. 

I  never  wander  where  the  bordering  reeds 
O'erlook  the  muddy  stream,  whose  tangling  weeds 
Perplex  the  fisher;  I  nor  choose  to  bear 
The  thievish  nightly  net,  nor  barbed  spear ; 
Nor  drain  I  ponds,  the  golden  carp  to  take, 
Nor  troll  for  pike,  dispeoplers  of  the  lake. 
Around  the  steel  no  tortur'd  worm  shall  twine, 
No  blood  of  living  insect  stain  my  line; 


GOOD  FISHING  119 

Let  me,  less  cruel,  cast  the  feather'd  hook, 
With  pliant  rod  athwart  the  pebbled  brook, 
Silent  along  the  mazy  margin  stray, 
And  with  the  fur-wrought  fly  delude  the  prey. 

—John  Gay. 

From  "Rural  Sports." 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  FISHERMAN 

You  see  the  ways  the  Fisher-man  doth  take 
To  catch  the  fish;  what  engines  doth  he  make? 
Behold  how  he  engageth  all  his  wits; 
Also  his  snares,  lines,  angles,  hooks,  and  nets. 
Yet  fish  there  be,  that  neither  hook,  nor  line, 
Nor  snare,  nor  net,  nor  engine  can  make  thine ; 
They  must  be  grop'd  for,  and  be  tickled  too, 
Or  they  will  not  be  catch'd,  whate'er  you  do. 

— John  Bunyan. 

From  "The  Author's  Apology"  for  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress." 


GOOD  FISHING 

Is  the  sun  up?  is't  the  approach  of  morn? 

Is  it  the  moan  of  the  cowherd's  horn? 

Is't  the  shepherd's  bell  which  greets  mine  ear? 

Is't  the  rustling  step  of  fawn  or  deer? 

Is't  the  dancing  stream  where  the  fishes  play? 

Or  the  bracing  breath  of  a  young  March  day  ? 


Yes,  the  sun  is  up,  and  the  fly  is  out 
That  will  tempt  the  eye  of  a  golden  trout. 


120 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Let  thy  skill  be  good,  and  thy  line  be  strong, 
And  the  prey  shall  be  thine,  ere  the  morn  be  long; 
Yet  be  cautious,  and  quick,  nor  approach  too  near, 
In  this  timid  and  early  month  of  the  year. 

So  arouse  thee,  be  stirring,  thy  tackle  prepare, 
And  prove  well  the  strength  of  each  separate  snare. 
Thou  hadst  better  be  wanting  a  single  brace, 
Than  harness  a  fish  with  a  worn-out  trace. 
Then  may  joy,  and  success,  and  no  ills  betide 
The  repast,  and  repose,  of  thy  bright  fireside. 

—Henry  Phillips. 

SPRING  FEVER 

Not  exactly  lazy — 

Yet  I  want  to  sit 
In  the  mornin'  hazy 

An'  jest  dream  a  bit. 
Haven't  got  ambition 

Fer  a  single  thing — 
Regaler  condition 

Ev'ry  bloomin'  Spring. 

Want  to  sleep  at  noontime 
(Ought  to  work  instead), 

But  along  at  moontime 
Hate  to  go  to  bed. 

Find  myself  a-stealin' 
Fer  a  sunny  spot — 

Jest  that  Springy  feelin', 
That  is  what  I've  got. 


THE  INVITATION 121 

Like  to  set  a-wishin' 

Fer  a  pipe  an*  book, 
Like  to  go  a-fishin' 

In  a  meadow-brook 
With  some  fish  deceiver, 

Underneath  a  tree — 
Jest  the  old  Spring  fever, 

That's  what's  ailing  me ! 

— Douglas  Malloch. 

THE  INVITATION 
To  Tom  Hughes 

Come  away  with  me,  Tom, 
Term  and  talk  are  done; 
My  poor  lads  are  reaping, 
Busy  every  one. 
Curates  mind  the  parish, 
Sweepers  mind  the  court; 
We'll  away  to  Snowdon 
For  our  ten  days'  sport; 
Fish  the  August  evening 
Till  the  eve  is  past, 
Whoop  like  boys,  at  pounders 
Fairly  played  and  grassed. 
When  they  cease  to  dimple, 
Lunge,  and  swerve,  and  leap, 
Then  up  over  Siabod, 
Choose  our  nest,  and  sleep. 
Up  a  thousand  feet,  Tom, 
Round  the  lion's  head, 


122  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Find  soft  stones  to  leeward 
And  make  up  our  bed. 
Eat  our  bread  and  bacon, 
Smoke  the  pipe  of  peace, 
And,  ere  we  be  drowsy, 
Give  our  boots  a  grease. 
Homer's  heroes  did  so, 
Why  not  such  as  we  ? 
What  are  sheets  and  servants? 
Superfluity! 

Pray  for  wives  and  children 
Safe  in  slumber  curled, 
Then  to  chat  till  midnight 
O'er  this  babbling  world — 
Of  the  workmen's  college, 
Of  the  price  of  grain, 
Of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
Of  the  chance  of  rain ; 
If  Sir  A.  goes  Romeward, 
If  Miss  B.  sings  true, 
If  the  fleet  comes  homeward, 
If  the  mare  will  do,— 
Anything  and  everything — 
Up  there  in  the  sky 
Angels  understand  us, 
And  no  'saints'  are  by. 
Down,  and  bathe  at  day-dawn, 
Tramp  from  lake  to  lake, 
Washing  brain  and  heart  clean 
Every  step  we  take. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  ROD  AND  REEL     123 

Though  we  earn  our  bread,  Tom, 

By  the  dirty  pen, 

What  we  can  we  will  be, 

Honest  Englishmen. 

Do  the  work  that's  nearest, 

Though  it's  dull  at  whiles, 

Helping,  when  we  meet  them, 

Lame  dogs  over  stiles ; 

See  in  every  hedgerow 

Marks  of  angels'  feet, 

Epics  in  each  pebble 

Underneath  our  feet ; 

Once  a  year,  like  schoolboys, 

Robin-Hooding  go, 

Leaving  fops  and  fogies 

A  thousand  feet  below. 

— Charles  Kingsley. 

From  "Poems,"  The  Macmillan  Company. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  ROD  AND  REEL 

You  hang  them  up  with  a  saddened  heart 

When  the  frosts  of  Autumn  steal, 
With  a  wintry  grip  o'er  the  ponds  and  brooks, 
To  drive  the  fish  to  their  cozy  nooks, 

Afar  from  your  rod  and  reel. 

On  the  wall  of  your  den  they'll  play  their  part, 

Your  reel  and  your  split  bamboo, 
As  you  tell  of  the  fish  they've  brought  to  shore, 
As  big  as  whales  or  maybe  more, 

When  the  summer  zephyrs  blew. 


124  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Through  the  wintry  months  when  the  snow  drifts  deep 

On  the  bank  of  your  favorite  streams, 
By  the  fireside  glow  your  thoughts  will  steal, 
Back  to  the  song  of  your  buzzing  reel, 
And  the  biggest  fish  of  your  dreams. 

But  a  time  has  come  when  the  ice  cakes  break, 

And  the  freshets  flood  the  fields, 
Then  your  heart  beats  quick  and  you  feel  the  thrill, 
That  comes  as  a  cure  for  many  an  ill, 

With  the  lure  of  your  rod  and  reel. 

— Allen  F.  Brewer. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


THE  WICKED  FISHERMAN 
To  a  Fellow-Angler,  G.  M.  M. 

That  man  a  perilous  course  doth  keep, 
Swept  on  like  tides  of  Funday, 

Who  preys,  while  others  pray  (or  sleep), 
Upon  that  trout  on  Sunday. 

A  prayer  or  sermon,  led  by  some 
Good  psalm-tune  like  old  "Dundee," 

His  sinful  state  would  more  become 
Than  catching  trout  on  Sunday. 

Has  he  no  dread  of  what  is  said 

By  pious  Mrs.  Grundy  ? — 
"How  ever  can  that  wicked  man 

Go  fishing  on  a  Sunday?" 


RONDEAU  125 


But  there's  an  angler  shrewd  as  he 

(And  craftier  could  none  be), 
Who  sets  a  bait  for  sinners  straight 

That  fishing  go  on  Sunday. 

Then  let  him  heed  his  wicked  deed, 

Put  by  his  rod  till  Monday, 
Or  he'll  be  fish  for  the  Devil's  dish 

And  served  up  hot  some  Sunday. 

— Francis  F.  Browne. 

From  "Volunteer  Grain,"  Way  &  Williams,  Chicago,  1895.    Permission  of 
F.  G.  Browne. 

THE  BROOK 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

— Alfred  Tennyson. 

RONDEAU 

In  winter  days,  when  tired  out, 

And  weary  with  the  world  without, 
Before  the  fire,  burning  high, 
I  light  my  pipe  with  a  happy  sigh, 

And  put  my  business  cares  to  rout. 

Though  failures  oft  my  efforts  flout, 
I've  other  things  to  think  about,- 
When  in  my  easy  chair  I  lie, 
In  winter  days. 


126  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

In  dreams  the  streams  again  I  scout, 
The  foam-flecked  pool,  the  moment's  doubt, 
The  flies,  the  gleam,  the  splash,  the  cry, 
The  reel,  the  rush,  then  high  and  dry 
I  land  again  the  lusty  trout, 
In  winter  days. 

— Robert  Thome  Newberry. 

WHEN  TULIPS  BLOOM 
I 

When  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 
And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 

Go  wandering  down  the  dusty  town, 
Like  children  lost  in  Vanity  Fair; 

When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  stands  aglow, 

And  leads  the  eyes  toward  sunset  skies 
Beyond  the  hills  where  green  trees  grow ; 

Then  weary  seems  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade : 
I'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-nshing; 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 

II 

I  guess  the  pussy-willows  now 
Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough 

Along  the  brook;  and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plough. 


WHEN  TULIPS  BLOOM 127 

The  thistle-birds  have  changed  their  dun, 
For  yellow  coats,  to  match  the  sun ; 

And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  Dandelion  Show's  begun. 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  trees: 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-nshing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these? 

Ill 

I  think  the  meadow-lark's  clear  sound 
Leaps  upward  slowly  from  the  ground, 
While  on  the  wing  the  bluebirds  sing 
Their  wedding-bells  to  woods  around. 

The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush ;  and  very  near, 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass  grows, 
Song-sparrows  gently  sing,  "Good  cheer!" 

And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit-thrush  repeats  his  psalm. 

How  much  I'm  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  so  sweet  with  music's  balm ! 

IV 

'Tis  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine ; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine ; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record,  or  my  line. 


128  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Only  an  idle  little  stream, 
Whose  amber  waters  softly  gleam, 

Where  I  may  wade,  through  woodland  shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream: 

Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 

From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art : 

'Tis  all  I'm  wishing — old-fashioned  fishing, 
And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart ! 

— Henry  Van  Dyke. 

From  "Poems  of  Henry  Van  Dyke."    Copyright,  1911,  1920,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.    By  permission  of  the  publishers. 


APRIL  ON  TWEED 

As  birds  are  fain  to  build  their  nest 

The  first  soft  sunny  day, 
So  longing  wakens  in  my  breast 

A  month  before  the  May, 
When  now  the  wind  is  from  the  West, 

And  Winter  melts  away. 

The  snow  lies  yet  on  Eildon  Hill, 

But  soft  the  breezes  blow. 
If  melting  snows  the  waters  fill, 

We  nothing  heed  the  snow, 
But  we  must  up  and  take  our  will, — 

A  fishing  will  we  go! 


THE  HAPPY  ANGLER  129 

Below  the  branches  brown  and  bare, 

Beneath  the  primrose  lea, 
The  trout  lies  waiting  for  his  fare, 

A  hungry  trout  is  he; 
He's  hooked,  and  springs  and  splashes  there 

Like  salmon  from  the  sea. 

Oh,  April  tide's  a  pleasant  tide, 

However  times  may  fall, 
And  sweet  to  welcome  Spring,  the  Bride, 

You  hear  the  mavis  call ; 
But  all  adown  the  water-side 

The  Spring's  most  fair  of  all ! 

— Andrew  Lang. 

From  "Grass  of  Parnassus,"  Longsmans,  Green,  &  Co. 


THE  HAPPY  ANGLER 

Below  a  shady  hazel  tree 

An  angler  trimmed  his  flies, 
Singing,  hey  derry !  trout  that  are  merry 

No  longer,  no  longer  are  wise. 

Of  dapper  make  and  ruddy  hue 

'Twas  a  jolly  blade,  I  ween, 
With  his  hey  derry,  fresh  from  the  ferry, 

Over  the  meadows  so  green. 

Right  gladsomely  he  eyed  the  stream, 

And  shook  his  wand  anon, 
With  a  hey  derry!  brown  as  a  berry 

The  winding  waters  run. 

9 


130  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Oh!  well  I  wot  that  jovial  blade 

Is  one  of  the  gentle  band, 
With  his  hey  derry,  trout  that  are  merry, 
Swim  to  the  angler's  hand. 
Derry,  hey  derry! 
Trout  that  are  merry 
Swim  to  the  angler's  hand ! 

— Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


IN  TROUTING  TIME 

Now  what  care  I  for  politics 

And  all  their  mad  and  foolish  tricks, 

And  demogogic  spouting? 
We've  reached  the  time  of  year  so  glad 
When  men  can  drop  the  woe  and  gad 
Of  daily  cares  and  go,  my  lad, 

With  rod  and  reel  a-trouting ! 

Let  business  cares  be  what  they  may, 
Let  happen  what  may  hap  to-day 

In  all  this  world  of  doubting — 
I  have  no  care,  for  free  am  I 
To  take  my  rod,  my  reel,  and  fly, 
And  to  the  distant  rillets  hie 

To  ease  my  soul  in  trouting ! 

Prue  may  be  cross,  and  Bess  unkind, 
But  naught  I  care!    I  shall  not  mind 
Their  frowning  and  their  pouting. 


THE  WINDING  STREAM  131 

But  from  the  social  whirl  I'll  slip, 
And  to  the  vales  and  hillsides  skip, 
And  pool,  and  pond,  and  brooklet  whip, 
In  gay  and  joyous  trout  ing. 

The  rod,  the  reel,  the  hook,  the  line, 
And  leafy  ways  and  fish  for  mine ! 

I'm  off  upon  my  outing, 
'Mid  byways  peaceful  and  serene 
Up  in  the  hills  so  softly  green 
Where  trouble  never  shows  his  mien 

The  while  I'm  at  my  trouting! 

—John  Kendrick  Bangs. 

From  "The  Foothills  of  Parnassus,"  The  Macmillan  Co. 


THE  WINDING  STREAM 

A  winding  stream  in  a  wooded  vale 

At  the  close  of  a  summer  day, 
Where,  as  the  light  begins  to  fail, 

The  trout  are  jumping  at  play; 
And  the  night  winds  wak'ning  amid  the  leaves, 

Whispering  soft  and  low; 
And  the  shadows  deep'ning  'neath  the  trees, 

Where  the  ferns  and  the  mosses  grow. 

I  can  hear  the  voice  of  this  winding  stream, 

As  it  chatters  upon  its  way,     . 
I  can  see  the  pool  where  the  waters  gleam 

In  the  fading  light  of  day; 


132  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  the  fringing  grasses  are  trailing  there 

In  the  eddies  swirling  by, 
Where  the  big  trout  lurks  in  his  hidden  lair, 

Watchful  and  wary  and  shy. 

Oh,  for  a  touch  of  the  light  bamboo, 

And  the  sound  of  the  spinning  reel. 
And  a  day  in  the  dear  old  haunts  with  you, 

With  a  rod  and  a  well-filled  creel. 
Oh,  to  escape  the  noise  of  the  street, 

And  the  sight  of  the  hurrying  throng, 
And  breathe  the  air  of  that  cool  retreat, 

Where  the  brook  sings  its  evening  song! 

— Fayette  Dublin. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


SONG 

When  homeward  from  the  stream  we  turn 
Good  cheer  our  sport  replaces, 

There's  liquor  twinkling  in  the  glass, 
There's  joy  on  all  our  faces ! 

We  drink  sweet  healths,  a  merry  round, 

We  talk  old  stories  over, 
And  sing  glad  staves,  like  summer  birds 

Below  their  leafy  cover. 

Thus  cheerily  our  evenings  pass, 

Till  lulled  below  the  quilting 
We  sleep  our  toils  off,  and  are  forth 

Before  the  lark  is  lilting. 


THE  FISHERMAN 133 

All  joy  be  with  our  hearts'  kin  bold ! 

May  care's  nets  ne'er  entangle, 
Nor  woe  nor  poverty  depress 

A  brother  of  the  angle ! 

—Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


THE  FISHERMAN 

Along  a  stream  that  raced  and  ran 
Through  tangled  trees  and  over  stones, 

That  long  had  heard  the  pipes  o'  Pan 
And  shared  the  joys  that  nature  owns, 

I  met  a  fellow  fisherman, 
Who  greeted  me  in  cheerful  tones. 

The  lines  of  care  were  on  his  face. 

I  guessed  that  he  had  buried  dead; 
Had  run  for  gold  full  many  a  race, 

And  kept  great  problems  in  his  head, 
But  in  that  gentle  resting  place 

No  word  of  wealth  or  fame  he  said. 

He  showed  me  trout  that  he  had  caught 
And  praised  the  larger  ones  of  mine ; 

Told  me  how  that  big  beauty  fought 
And  almost  broke  his  silken  line; 

Spoke  of  the  trees  and  sky,  and  thought 
Them  proof  of  life  and  power  divine. 


134  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

There  man  to  man  we  talked  of  trees 

And  birds,  as  people  talk  of  men ; 
Discussed  the  busy  ways  of  bees; 

Wondered  what  lies  beyond  our  ken; 
Where  is  the  land  no  mortal  sees 

And  shall  we  come  this  way  again. 

"Out  here,"  he  told  me,  with  a  smile, 

"Away  from  all  the  city's  sham, 
The  strife  for  splendor  and  for  style, 

The  ticker  and  the  telegram 
I  come  for  just  a  little  while 

To  be  exactly  as  I  am." 

Foes  think  the  bad  in  him  they've  guessed 
And  prate  about  the  wrong  they  scan ; 

Friends  that  have  seen  him  at  his  best 
Believe  they  know  his  every  plan; 

I  know  him  better  than  the  rest, 
I  know  him  as  a  fisherman. 

— Edgar  A.  Guest. 

From  "Just  Folks."  Copyrighted  by  and  permission  from  Reilly  &  Lee  Co. 


THE  COACHMAN 

O,  buzzy  and  fuzzy,  dark  body  of  herl, 
With  thy  pure,  white  silken  wing ! 

The  bard  of  the  rod  were  indeed  a  churl 
To  refuse  of  thee  to  sing, 


THE  COACHMAN  135 

Who  so  oft  hast  driven  him  home  with  glee 

When  weary  with  hopeless  toil, 
In  a  merry  late  hour  when  but  for  thee 

He  had  carried  no  finny  spoil. 

With  thy  summer  cape  and  thy  woolly  vest, 

Prepared  for  the  chill  night  air, 
Like  thy  mates  of  town  for  night  work  drest, 

To  ply  for  a  nightly  fare, 
Thou  comest,  the  moths  about  thy  head, 

Thy  music  the  beetle's  hum, 
While  the  stars  wink  out  of  the  river  bed, 

And  the  woodland  sounds  are  dumb. 

Thou  hast  oft  pulled  up  on  my  homeward  way, 

And  bid  me  mark  a  rise, 
Hast  stealthily  gone  to  the  hidden  prey 

And  landed  the  golden  prize; 
When  eve  to  silvery  moonlight  wore, 

Thou  hast  crept  to  the  darkling  stream 
And  gladdened  my  eyes  by  added  store, 

Till  thy  prowess  seemed  a  dream. 

O,  'tis  hard  to  carry  an  empty  creel 

At  the  close  of  a  sultry  day, 
And,  trudging  the  homeward  path,  to  feel 

All  art  had  been  thrown  away! 
But  if  so  vainly  for  trout  you  strive, 

At  the  gloaming  never  despair, 
Call  on  your  coachman  to  give  them  a  drive, 

And  he  will  not  want  a  fare ! 

— Cotswold  Isys. 


136 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

DOWN  AROUND  THE  RIVER 

Noon-time  and  June-time,  down  around  the  river! 
Have  to  furse  with  Lizey  Ann — but  lawzy!   I  fergive 

her! 
Drives  me  off  the  place,   and  says  'at  all  'at  she's 

a-wishin', 

Land  o'  gracious!  time' 11  come  I'll  git  enough  o'  fishin'! 
Little  Dave,  a-choppin'  wood,  never  'pears  to  notice; 
Don't  know  where  she's  hid  his  hat,  er  keerin'  where  his 

coat  is, — 

Specalatin',  more'n  like,  he  hain't  a-goin'  to  mind  me, 
And  guessin'  where,  say  twelve  o'clock,  a  feller'd  likely 

find  me. 

Noon-time  and  June-time,  down  around  the  river! 
Clean  out  o'  sight  o'  home,  and  skulkin'  under  kivver 
Of   the    sycamores,    jack-oaks,    an'    swamp-ash    and 

ellum — 

Idies  all  so  jumbled  up,  you  kin  hardly  tell  'em ! — 
Tired,  you  know,   but  loviri   it,   and  smilin'  jes'  to 

think  'at 

Any  sweeter  tiredness  you'd  fairly  want  to  drink  it ! 
Tired   o'    fishin' — tired   o'    fun — line   out   slack   and 

slacker — 
All  you  want  in  all  the  world's  a  little  more  tobacker! 

Hungry,  but  a-hidin  it,  er  jes'  a-not  a-keerin' : — 
Kingfisher  gittin'  up  and  skootin'  out  o'  hearin'  ; 
Snipes  on  the  t'other  side,  where  the  County  Ditch  is, 
Wadin'  up  and  down  the  aidge  like  they'd  rolled  their 
britches ! 


KING  OF  THE  BROOK 137 

Old  turkle  on  the  root  kind  o'  sort  o'  drappin' 
Intoo  th'  worter  like  he  don't  know  how  it  happen! 
Worter,  shade  and  all  so  mixed,  don't  know  which 

you'd  orter 
Say,  th'  worter  in  the  shadder — shadder  in  the  worter! 

Somebody  hollerin' — 'way  around  the  bend  in 
Upper  Fork — where  yer  eye  kin  jes'  ketch  the  endin' 
Of  the  shiney  wedge  o'  wake  some  muss-rat's  a-makin' 
With  that  pesky  nose  o'  his !    Then  a  sniff  o'  bacon, 
Corn-bread  and  'dock-greens — and  little  Dave  a-shin- 

nin' 
'Crost    the    rocks    and    mussel-shells,    a-limpin'    and 

a-grinnin', 

With  yer  dinner  fer  ye,  and  a  blessin'  from  the  giver. 
Noon-time  and  June-time  down  around  the  river! 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

From  the  Biographical  Edition  of  the  Complete  Works  of  James  Whitcomb 
Riley,  copyright,  1913.  Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The 
Bobbs-Merrill  Co. 


KING  OF  THE  BROOK 

Give  me  the  rod  and  reel, 

The  wee  strong  line  and  the  keen-barbed  hook; 
Give  me  the  joy  all  true  fishers  feel 

Who  vanquish  the  King  of  the  Brook! 

He  is  a  goodly  prince 

In  his  royal  robe  of  red  and  gold, 
Like  a  sultan's,  rich  with  sheeny  tints, 

How  he  darts  through  the  water  cold! 


138  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

A  kingly  home  is  his: 

The  sparkling  pool  in  the  mad  spring  stream! 
Name  me  the  palace  brighter  than  this 

In  the  silvery  ripple's  gleam. 

Ah,  'tis  a  glory  rare, 

With  footsteps  soft,  and  with  bated  breath, 
To  tempt  the  king  from  his  fastness  fair, 

And  battle  him  unto  the  death ! 

He  dies  as  monarchs  die 
Who  of  dastardly  fear  give  no  sign, 

But  fight  for  life  till  their  latest  sigh — 
Royal  proof  of  his  royal  line ! 

Ye  who  extol  the  town, 

Take  its  wealth,  its  pride,  its  fleeting  joys, 
Its  mansions  high,  with  their  fronts  of  brown, 

Its  beauty,  its  fashions,  its  toys. 

But  give  me  rod  and  reel, 

The  wee  strong  line  and  the  keen-barbed  hook 
Give  me  the  joy  all  true  fishers  feel 

Who  vanquish  the  King  of  the  Brook ! 

— M.  A.  Kingsford. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


I  WANT  TO  GO  FISHING  TO-DAY      139 


IZAAK  WALTON'S  PRAYER 

A  crinkling,  sun-specked  stream,  some  kindly  shade 
A  friend  who  loves  a  chub  or  dappling  trout, 

My  mug  of  barley-wine  when  sport's  been  played, 
A  nut-brown  lass  with  tender-melting  pout. 

Arcadian-homely  hours,  apart  from  men, 
Pursuing  my  sequestered,  gentle  art, 

Making  my  toil  and  pastime  so  to  blend 

That  peace  unruffled  dwells  within  my  heart. 

Fish-dimpled  waters  that  with  slumbrous  croon 
Lap  banks  with  ladies'-smocks  made  fair  and  sweet. 

Keep  me,  O  Lord,  from  London's  loveless  gloom, 
Let  Walton  lie  at  Severn's  rustling  feet. 

— D.  L.  James. 


I  WANT  TO  GO  FISHING  TO-DAY 

There's  a  languorous  feeling  and  sultry  air, 

In  office  and  store  and  street; 
There's  a  longing  for  shores  where  the  winds  are 
fair, 

And  cooling  sands  for  the  feet. 
There's  the  swish  of  the  waves  and  the  splash  of 
the  oars, 

The  sound  of  a  distant  call ;     . 
There's  the  far-away  cloud  that  gently  soars, 

And  the  blue  that  covers  all. 


140 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And,  oh,  as  I  look  from  my  window  high, 

And  watch  the  clouds  at  play, 
There  comes  from  my  heart  such  a  rising  sigh — 

I  want  to  go  fishing  to-day ! 

I  strive  to  banish  the  thought  of  a  line 

That  leads  to  the  lair  of  the  bass ; 
I  think  of  the  dangers  that  may  be  mine, 

Ere  the  island's  head  I  pass; 
But,  oh,  that  bare-footed  boy  that  comes 

With  his  rod,  has  stirred  me  again 
And  I  sing  once  more  the  song  that  he  hums 

And  I  long  to  be  in  his  train. 
For  memory  launched  a  silvery  boat 

On  a  sea  that  is  bright  and  gay — 
The  happiest  man  I  would  be  afloat, 

Could  I  but  go  fishing  to-day ! 

— John  Charles  Shea. 


THE  HIDDEN  POOL 

High  in  the  Sierras,  where  the  pines 

Drop  their  cones  by  the  rock-ribb'd  stream, 

Under  a  tangle  of  ferns  and  vines, 
There  lies  a  pool  where  the  brook  trout  teem. 

'Tis  rimm'd  by  willows  and  alders  green, 
And  banked  by  boulders  and  golden  sand; 

Dark  it  lies,  and  it  hides  unseen, 
Waiting  the  cast  of  the  master  hand. 


THE  FISH  141 


And  often  a  buck  at  eventide 

Mirrors  his  crest  in  the  crystal  pool, 
To  see  himself  in  his  antler'd  pride 

And  rest  in  the  shade  of  the  alders  cool. 

And  sometimes,  too,  a  shy  black  bear, 

Nosing  about  for  a  choice  tidbit, 
Will  come  to  feast  on  the  berries  there, 

For  he  knows  the  pool  and  the  joys  of  it. 

And  beyond  the  pool,  above,  below, 

The  wild  rose  buds  and  blooms  and  fades, 

And  the  flaunting  tiger  lilies  blow 
In  this,  the  fairest  of  sylvan  glades. 

I  don't  know  where,  by  a  rule  and  line, 
(Though  you  scale  the  peaks  and  wade  the  stream), 

To  tell  you  to  find  this  pool  of  mine, 
For  I  think  myself  it  is  just  a  dream. 

But  high  in  the  Sierras,  where  the  pines 
Drop  their  cones  down  the  mountain-side, 

Under  the  tangled  wild  grapevines, 

There  lies  a  pool  where  the  big  trout  hide. 

— Robert  Erskine  Ross. 


THE  FISH 

In  a  cool  curving  world  he  lies 
And  ripples  with  dark  ecstasies. 
The  kind  luxurious  lapse,  and  steal, 
Shapes  all  his  universe  to  feel 


142 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  know  and  be ;  the  clinging  stream 
Closes  his  memory,  glooms  his  dream, 
Who  lips  the  roots  o'  the  shore,  and  glides 
Superb  on  unreturning  tides. 
Those  silent  waters  weave  for  him 
A  fluctuant  mutable  world  and  dim, 
Where  wavering  masses  bulge  and  gape 
Mysterious,  and  shape  to  shape 
Dies  momently  through  whorl  and  hollow, 
And  form  and  line  and  solid  follow 
Solid  and  line  and  form  to  dream 
Fantastic  down  the  eternal  stream; 
An  obscure  world,  a  shifting  world, 
Bulbous,  or  pulled  to  thin,  or  curled, 
Or  serpentine,  or  driving  arrows, 
Or  serene  slidings,  or  March  narrows. 
There  slipping  wave  and  shore  are  one, 
And  weed  and  mud.    No  ray  of  sun, 
But  glow  to  glow  fades  down  the  deep 
(As  dream  to  unknown  dream  in  sleep) ; 
Shaken  translucency  illumes 
The  hyaline  of  drifting  glooms ; 
The  strange  soft-handed  depth  subdues 
Drowned  color  there,  but  black  to  hues, 
As  death  to  living,  decomposes — 
Red  darkness  of  the  heart  of  roses, 
Blue  brilliant  from  dead  starless  skies, 
And  gold  that  lies  behind  the  eyes, 
The  unknown  unnameable  sightless  white 
That  is  the  essential  flame  of  night, 
Lustreless  purple,  hooded  green, 


THE  FISH  143 


The  myriad  hues  that  lie  between 
Darkness  and  darkness !    .    .    . 

And  all's  one, 

Gentle,  embracing,  quiet,  dun, 
The  world  he  rests  in,  world  he  knows, 
Perpetual  curving.    Only — grows 
An  eddy  in  that  ordered  falling, 
A  knowledge  from  the  gloom,  a  calling 
Weed  in  the  wave,  gleam  in  the  mud — 
The  dark  fire  leaps  along  his  blood; 
Dateless  and  deathless,  blind  and  still, 
The  intricate  impulse  works  its  will ; 
His  woven  world  drops  back;  and  he, 
Sans  providence,  sans  memory, 
Unconscious  and  directly  driven, 
Fades  to  some  dank  sufficient  heaven. 

O  world  of  lips,  O  world  of  laughter, 
Where  hope  is  fleet  and  thought  flies  after, 
Of  lights  in  the  clear  night,  of  cries 
That  drift  along  the  wave  and  rise 
Thin  to  the  glittering  stars  above, 
You  know  the  hands,  the  eyes  of  love! 
The  strife  of  limbs,  the  sightless  clinging, 
The  infinite  distance,  and  the  singing 
Blown  by  the  wind,  a  flame  of  sound, 
The  gleam,  the  flowers,  and  vast  around 
The  horizon,  and  the  heights  above — 
You  know  the  sigh,  the  song  of  love ! 


144 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

But  there  the  night  is  close,  and  there 
Darkness  is  cold  and  strange  and  bare; 
And  the  secret  deeps  are  whisperless ; 
And  rhythm  is  all  deliciousness; 
And  joy  is  in  the  throbbing  tide, 
Whose  intricate  fingers  beat  and  glide 
In  felt  bewildering  harmonies 
Of  trembling  touch ;  and  music  is 
The  exquisite  knocking  of  the  blood. 
Space  is  no  more,  under  the  mud ; 
His  bliss  is  older  than  the  sun. 
Silent  and  straight  the  waters  run, 
The  lights,  the  cries,  the  willows  dim, 
And  the  dark  tide  are  one  with  him. 

— Rupert  Brooke. 

From  "Collected  Poems,"  The  John  Lane  Co. 

MODERN  SPORT 

One  day  I  went  a-gunning 
With  turkey  on  my  brain; 
But,  dazzled  by  the  sunlight, 
Brought  down  an  aeroplane. 

Thought  I:   "Behind  yon  woodshed 
Is  where  the  fish- worms  are"; 
But  digging  there,  I  captured 
A  wriggling  subway  car. 

At  length  my  trusty  fish-hook 
I  baited  with  a  bean. 
Alas!  from  calm,  blue  water 
I  dragged  a  submarine. 

— St.  Clair  Adams. 


THEY  WENT  A-FISHING 145 

THEY  WENT  A-FISHING 

One  morning,  when  Spring  was  in  her  teens, 

A  morn  to  a  poet's  wishing, 
All  tinted  in  delicate  pinks  and  greens, 

Miss  Bessie  and  I  went  fishing; 

I  in  my  rough  and  easy  clothes, 
With  my  face  at  the  sunshine's  mercy; 

She  with  her  hat  tipped  down  to  her  nose, 
And  her  nose  tipped — vice  verse. 

I  with  my  rod  and  reel  and  hooks, 
And  a  hamper  for  lunching  recesses; 

She  with  the  bait  of  her  comely  looks, 
And  the  seine  of  her  golden  tresses. 

So  we  sat  down  on  the  sunny  dike, 

Where  the  white  pond  lilies  teeter, 
And  I  went  to  fishing,  like  quaint  old  Ike, 

And  she  like  Simon  Peter. 

All  the  noon  I  lay  in  the  light  of  her  eyes, 

And  dreamily  watched  and  waited; 
But  the  fish  were  cunning  and  would  not  rise, 

And  the  baiter  alone  was  baited. 

And  when  the  time  for  departure  came, 

The  bag  was  flat  as  a  flounder; 
But  Bessie  had  neatly  hooked  her  game — 

A  hundred-and-eighty  pounder. 

— Anonymous. 


146  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


A  RHYME  OF  LITTLE  FISHES 

For  even  little  fishes  let 
The  Red  Gods  have  your  thanks. 

Though  all  you  want  you  do  not  get, 
Rejoice  you  don't  draw  blanks. 

For  better  men  than  you,  by  far, 

Have  fished  the  whole  day  through- 
Yea,  fished  like — what  someone  called  war — 
And  caught  far  less  than  you. 

To-morrow  can't  bring  luck  more  bad 

To  you,  and  anyway 
You  should  be  glad  that  you  have  had 

A  chance  to  fish  to-day. 

So  e'en  for  little  fishes  give 

The  Gods  your  hearty  praise 
That  they,  in  turn,  may  let  you  live 

A  heap  more  fishing  days. 

— C.  L.  Oilman. 

Permission  of  "Outing  Magazine." 


THE  ANGLER'S  DELECTATION 

Let  me  live  harmlessly;  and  near  the  brink 
Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place,— 

Where  I  may  see  my  quill,  or  cork,  down  sink 
With  eager  bite  of  oerch,  or  bleak,  or  dace ; 


THE  ANGLER'S  DELECTATION         147 

And  on  the  world  and  my  Creator  think: 

Whilst  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t'  embrace* 
And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 
Of  wine, — or,  worse,  in  war  and  wantonness. 

Let  them  that  list,  these  pastimes  still  pursue, 
And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fill; 

So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 
And  daily  by  fresh  rivers  walk  at  will, 

Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  blue, 
Red  hyacinth,  and  yellow  daffodil, 

Purple  narcissus  like  the  morning  rays, 

Pale  gander-grass,  and  azure  culver-keys. 

I  count  it  higher  pleasure  to  behold 
The  stately  compass  of  the  lofty  sky, 

And  in  the  midst  thereof,  like  burning  gold, 
The  flaming  chariot  of  the  world's  great  eye; 

The  watery  clouds  that  in  the  air  up-roll'd, 
With  sundry  kinds  of  painted  colors  fly, 

And  fair  Aurora,  lifting  up  her  head, 

Still  blushing,  rise  from  old  Tithonus'  bed. 

The  hills  and  mountains  raised  from  the  plains ; 

The  plains  extended,  level  with  the  ground ; 
The  grounds,  divided  into  sundry  veins, 

The  veins,  enclos'd  with  rivers  running  round; 
These  rivers,  making  way  through  nature's  chains, 

With  headlong  course  into  the  sea  profound ; 
The  raging  sea,  beneath  the  valleys  low, 
Where  lakes  and  rills  and  rivulets  do  flow. 


148 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  lofty  woods,  the  forests  wide  and  long, 
Adorn'd  with  leaves,  and  branches  fresh  and  green, 

In  whose  cool  bowers  the  birds  with  many  a  song, 
Do  welcome  with  their  quire  the  summer's  Queen ; 

The  meadows  fair,  where  Flora's  gifts  among 
Are  intermix'd,  with  verdant  grass  between; 

The  silver-scal'd  fish  that  softly  swim 

Within  the  sweet  brook's  crystal  watery  stream. 

All  these,  and  many  more,  of  His  creation 
That  made  the  heavens,  the  Angler  oft  doth  see, 

Taking  therein  no  little  delectation, 

To  think  how  strange,  how  wonderful  they  be ! 

Framing  thereof  an  inward  contemplation, 
To  set  his  heart  from  other  fancies  free; 

And  whilst  he  looks  on  these  with  joyful  eye, 

His  mind  is  rapt  above  the  starry  sky. 

— John  Dennys. 

From  "Secrets  of  Angling. " 


THE  SPECKLED  TROUT 

With  rod  and  line  I  took  my  way 
That  led  me  through  the  gossip  trees, 
Where  all  the  forest  was  asway 
With  hurry  of  the  running  breeze. 

I  took  my  hat  off  to  a  flower 
That  nodded  welcome  as  I  passed; 
And,  pelted  by  a  morning  shower, 
Unto  its  heart  a  bee  held  fast. 


THE  SPECKLED  TROUT  149 

A  head  of  gold  one  great  weed  tossed, 
And  leaned  to  look  when  I  went  by; 
And  where  the  brook  the  roadway  crossed 
The  daisy  kept  on  me  its  eye. 

And  when  I  stooped  to  bathe  my  face, 
And  seat  me  at  a  great  tree's  foot, 
I  heard  the  stream  say,  "Mark  the  place: 
And  undermine  it  rock  and  root." 

And  o'er  the  whirling  water  there 
A  dragonfly  its  shuttle  plied, 
Where  wild  a  fern  let  down  its  hair, 
And  leaned  to  see  the  water's  pride — 

A  speckled  trout.    The  spotted  elf, 
Whom  I  had  come  so  far  to  see, 
Stretched  out  above  a  rocky  shelf, 
A  shadow  sleeping  mockingly. 


And  I  have  sat  here  half  the  day 
Regarding  it.     It  has  not  stirred. 
I  heard  the  running  water  say — 
"He  does  not  know  the  magic  word. 

"The  word  that  changes  everything, 
And  brings  all  Nature  to  his  hand : 
That  makes  of  this  great  trout  a  king, 
And  opes  the  way  to  Faery  land." 

— Madison  Cawein. 

From  "The  Poet  and  Nature  and  the  Morning  Road,"  John  P.  Morton 
&Co. 


150  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  ANGLER'S  FAREWELL 
"Resigned,  I  kissed  the  rod." 

Well!  I  think  it  is  time  to  put  up! 

For  it  does  not  accord  with  my  notions, 
Wrist,  elbow,  and  chine, 
Stiff  from  throwing  the  line, 

To  take  nothing  at  last  by  my  motions. 

I  ground-bait  my  way  as  I  go, 
And  dip  in  at  each  watery  dimple; 

But  however  I  wish 

To  inveigle  the  fish 
To  my  gentle  they  will  not  play  simple ! 

Though  my  float  goes  so  swimmingly  on, 
My  bad  luck  never  seems  to  diminish ; 
It  would  seem  that  the  Bream 
Must  be  scarce  in  the  stream, 
And  the  Chub,  tho'  it's  chubby,  be  thinnish! 

Not  a  Trout  there  can  be  in  the  place, ' 
Not  a  Grayling  or  Rud  worth  the  mention ; 

And  although  at  my  hook 

With  attention  I  look, 
I  can  ne'er  see  my  hook  with  a  Trench  on ! 

At  a  brandling  once  Gudgeon  would  gape, 
But  they  seem  upon  different  terms  now; 

Have  they  taken  advice, 

Of  the  "Council  of  Nice," 
And  rejected  their  "Diet  of  Worms"  now? 


THE  ANGLER'S  FAREWELL  151 

In  vain  my  live  minnow  I  spin, 

Not  a  Pike  seems  to  think  it  worth  snatching; 

For  the  gut  I  have  brought, 

I  had  better  have  bought 
A  good  rope  that  was  used  to  Jack-Ketching! 

Not  a  nibble  has  ruffled  my  cork, 
It  is  vain  in  this  river  to  search  then; 

I  may  wait  till  it's  night, 

Without  any  bite, 
And  at  roost-time  have  never  a  Perch,  then ! 

No  Roach  can  I  meet  with — no  Bleak, 
Save  what  in  the  air  is  so  sharp  now ; 

Not  a  Dace  have  I  got, 

And  I  fear  it  is  not 
Carpe  diem,  a  day  for  the  Carp  now ! 

Oh !  there  is  not  a  one-pound  prize 
To  be  got  in  this  fresh- water-lottery ! 

What  then  can  I  deem 

Of  so  fishless  a  stream 
But  that  'tis — like  St.  Mary's — ottery? 

For  an  Eel  I  have  learned  how  to  try, 
By  a  method  of  Walton's  own  showing — 

But  a  fisherman  feels 

Little  prospect  of  Eels, 
In  a  path  that's  devoted  to  towing! 


152  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

I  have  tried  all  the  waters  for  miles, 
Till  I'm  weary  of  dipping  and  casting, 

And  hungry  and  faint — 

Let  the  fancy  just  paint 
What  it  is,  without  Fish,  to  be  Fasting ! 

And  the  rain  drizzles  down  very  fast, 

While  my  dinner-time  sounds  from  a  far  bell — 

So,  wet  to  the  skin, 

I'll  e'en  back  to  my  inn, 
Where  at  least  I'm  sure  of  a  Bar-bell! 

— Thomas  Hood. 


FISHIN'  TIME 

Dig  sum  bait,  it's  time  I'm  fishin',  it's  'bout  time  I'd 

wet  my  line; 

I  can  feel  it  creepin'  o'er  me  an'  I'm  gittin'  so's  I  pine! 
When  the  ice  upon  the  big  lake  gits  all  saggin'  down 

an'  wet — 
Dig  sum  bait,  it's  time  I'm  fishin*,  an'  it's  time  to  cure 

this  fret! 

When  the  saw  gits  dull  and  creaky  an'  it  won't  cut 

worth  a  cent, 
An'  I  ain't  got  spunk  enough  to,  in  the  log  make  one 

deep  dent; 
Then  I  know  that  lazy  feelin' — it  comes  creepin'  up 

my  spine, 
An'  my  mind  it  gits  to  wander,  for  it's  time  to  wet  my 

line! 


FISHIN'  TIME  153 


I  can  feel  it  stealin*  o'er  me  an'  the  saw  hangs  weary- 
like, 

An'  ambition  gits  to  dyin*  when  I  ought  to  fish  for  pike; 

Yes,  for  pike — Gosh,  an'  all  blame  it,  what's  the  use 
to  saw  in  wood — 

When  the  ice  is  out  an'  wiltin'  an'  the  fish  are  bitin' 
good? 

Wish  that  I  could  hold  this  here  saw  quite  as  steady  as 

this  pole- 
Wish  that  I  could  saw  this  woodpile  in  an  hour — but 

bless  my  soul: 
When  I'm  started  I  git  to  thinkin'  that  the  fish  are  out 

for  bait, 
So  I  lay  my  saw  beside  me — an'  I  sit  me  down  to  wait! 

Such  a  day — an'  here  it's  passin'  when  I'd  oughto  be 

down  there, 

Sittin'  on  the  bank  a-smilin',  speculative-like  an'  fair; 
Oh,  this  Toil,  this  Grim  Hard  Slavery,  an'  the  saw  is 

Rusted  Good— 
An'  it  binds  before  I'm  started  in  this  nameless  Birchen 

Wood! 

O  that  I  were  strong  an'  husky — with  one  hand  could 
push  this  saw; 

Heave  away  the  severed  timbers  into  Toil's  wide- 
gaping  maw — 

But  I'm  weak,  an'  I  am  sleepy — I  could  sleep  right 
where  I  sit, 

While  around  me  flying  fishes  ever  by  me  softly  flit. 


154 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

0  it's  thus  when  spring  is  on  us,  an'  the  sun  is  warm 

an'  high — 
It  is  thus  when  we  are  wishin',  an'  when  fishin'  is  our 

cry; 
When  the  line  is  dry  and  dusty  and  needs  wettin'  bad 

or  worse 
An'  to  saw  wood  in  the  springtime,  anyhow  is  but  a 

curse! 

Dig  sum  wums,  it's  time  I'm  nshin',  it's  'bout  time  I'd 
wet  my  line; 

1  can  feel  it  creepin'  o'er  me  an'  I  'm  gittin'  so's  I  pine ! 
When  the  ice  upon  the  big  lake  gits  all  saggin'  down 

an'  wet — 

Dig  sum  wums,  it's  time  I'm  nshin',  an'  it's  time  to 
cure  this  fret! 

—Robert  Page  Lincoln. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  STREAM 

I  am  sitting  to-day  at  the  desk  alone, 

And  the  figures  are  hard  to  tame 
I'd  like  to  shift  to  a  mossy  stone 

Nor  bother  with  pelf  and  fame. 
I  know  a  pool  where  the  waters  cool 

Rest  under  the  brawling  falls, 
And  the  song  and  gleam  of  that  mountain  stream — 

Oh,  it  calls,  and  calls,  and  calls! 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  STREAM  155 

There  are  hooks  and  lines  in  a  wayside  store 

Where  the  grangers  buy  their  plug, 
And  the  loggers  swap  their  river-lore 

For  a  jag  they  can  hardly  lug. 
I  wonder  how  long  that  tackle  will  lie 

As  useless  as  any  dumb  fool, 
Unless  I  happen  along  to  buy, 

And  sneak  for  that  mountain  pool. 

Oh,  bother  the  flies,  I  guess  I've  enough, 

I  know  where  the  worms  are  thick 
By  Billy's  old  barn — oh,  they  are  the  stuff — 

You  can  dig  a  quart  with  a  stick. 
The  reel  is  all  right  and  the  line  is  tight, 

And  if  they  should  happen  to  fail 
There's  little  birch  rods  that  are  fit  for  gods 

When  they  follow  the  trout-brook  trail. 

I  jing!  the  demon  has  rung  me  up — 

The  "central"  up  in  the  woods — 
Waders,  and  creel,  and  a  pocket-cup! 

I'm  after  the  only  goods. 
Wire  for  Hank,  and  the  old  buckboard — 

The  secret,  I  guess,  is  out — 
Don't  bother  me  now — you'll  get  in  a  row — 

I'm  catching  the  train  for  trout. 

-Charles  H.  Crandall. 

From  "Wayside  Music,"  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


156  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

WHEN  THE  FISH  BEGIN  TO  BITE 

There's  a  feel  in'  comes  a-stealin' 

Sorta  shamefaced-like  an'  queer, 
An'  my  heart '11  sorta  startle 

Just  about  this  time  o'  year. 
Like  a  robin  that's  a-throbbin' 

With  the  matin'  time  delight, 
When  the  days  are  gettin'  longer, 
An'  the  sun  is  gettin'  stronger, 

An'  the  fish  begin  to  bite. 

Every  daisy  seems  as  lazy, 

Just  a-noddin'  in  the  sun, 
As  a  feller  feelin'  meller 

When  his  evenin'  chores  are  done, 
An'  a-knowin'  where  he's  goin' 

With  his  fishin'  pole,  all  right, 
When  the  days  are  gettin'  longer, 
An'  the  sun  is  gettin'  stronger, 

An'  the  fish  begin  to  bite. 

Ain't  no  other  feelin',  nuther, 

That'll  grip  you  just  like  this. 
Can't  outgrow  it.    Don't  you  know  it? 

Then  you  don't  know  what  you  miss. 
When  you're  fishin',  well,  you're  wishin' 

Every  other  feller  might, 
When  the  days  are  gettin'  longer, 
An'  the  sun  is  gettin'  stronger, 

An'  the  fish  begin  to  bite. 

— Sam  S.  Stinson  ("Silent  Sam'). 

Permission  of  "The  American  Angler." 


JUST  KEEP  FISHIN*  157 

WRITTEN  UPON  A  BLANK  LEAF  IN  "THE 
COMPLEAT  ANGLER" 

While  flowing  rivers  yield  a  blameless  sport, 

Shall  live  the  name  of  Walton:  Sage  benign! 

Whose  pen,  the  mysteries  of  the  rod  and  line 

Unfolding,  did  not  fruitlessly  exhort 

To  reverend  watching  of  each  still  report 

That  Nature  utters  from  her  rural  shrine. 

Meek,  nobly  versed  in  simple  discipline — 

He  found  the  longest  summer  day  too  short, 

To  his  loved  pastime  given  by  sedgy  Lee, 

Or  down  the  tempting  maze  of  Shawford  brook — 

Fairer  than  life  itself,  in  this  sweet  Book, 

The  cowslip-bank  and  shady  willow  tree; 

And  the  fresh  meads — where  flowed,  from  every  nook 

Of  his  full  bosom,  gladsome  Piety ! 

—William  Wordsworth. 


JUST  KEEP  FISHIN' 

When  a  feller's  feelin'   lazy — when  the  springtime's 

comin'  'round, 
When  the  sun  is  gettin'  friendly — sorter  warmin'  up 

the  ground; 

It  is  then  I  get  the  fever  an'  I  hunt  my  pole  an'  line, 
An'  I've  got  to  go  a-fishin'  fer  I  know  they're  bitin'  fine. 

When  the  work  has  all  been  finished  an'  we're  foot- 
loose fer  a  week, 
Then  I  gather  up  my  tackle  fer  a  full  day  at  the  creek — 


158 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

To  sprawl  out  there,  contented,  with  my  old  cob  pipe 

alight, 
An'  smoke  an'  dream  an'  patient  be  while  waitin'  fer 

a  bite. 

I  like  to  land  one  now  an'  then — it  helps  a  feller's  fame, 
But  if  I  don't  I  make  no  kick,  but  go  on  jest  the  same; 
An'  like  all  good  fishermen  when  I  get  home,  I  say: 
"I  hooked  a  powerful  big  one  but  I  let  him  get  away." 

Now  when  we're  called  from  this  old  world  to  join  the 

angels'  band, 
I  hope  the  thing  will  work  out  so  I'll  somehow  be  on 

hand; 
An'  if  the  good  Lord  lets  me  have  the  job  fer  which  I'm 

wishin', 

I  want  to  find  some  shady  spot  an'  jest  keep  on  a-fishin'. 

— Harry  M.  Dean. 

Permission  of  "Outing  Magazine." 


SUMMER  ON  THAMES 

A  rushy  island  guards  the  sacred  bower, 
And  hides  it  from  the  meadow,  where  in  peace 
The  lazy  cows  wrench  many  a  scented  flower, 
Robbing  the  golden  market  of  the  bees : 

And  laden  barges  float 

By  banks  of  myosote; 
And  scented  flag  and  golden  flower-de-lys 

Delay  the  loitering  boat. 


WHEN  THIS  OLD  ROD  WAS  NEW       159 

Sometimes  an  angler  comes,  and  drops  his  hook 
Within  its  hidden  depths,  and  'gainst  a  tree 
Leaning  his  rod,  reads  in  some  pleasant  book, 
Forgetting  soon  his  pride  of  fishery, 
And  dreams,  or  falls  asleep, 
While  curious  fishes  peep 
About  his  nibbled  bait,  and  scornfully 
Dart  off  and  rise  and  leap. 

— Robert  Bridges. 

From  "Shorter  Poems." 

FISHING  IS  FINE  WHEN  THE  POOL  IS  MUDDY 

Oho!  Oho! 

Above, — below, — 

Lightly  and  brightly  they  glide  and  go! 
The  hungry  and  keen  to  the  top  are  leaping, 
The  lazy  and  fat  in  the  depths  are  sleeping ; 
Fishing  is  fine  when  the  pool  is  muddy. 

—Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed. 

From  "The  Red  Fisherman." 

WHEN  THIS  OLD  ROD  WAS  NEW 

When  this  old  rod  was  new, 

'Twas  in  the  vanish'd  time, 
When  step  was  light  and  eye  was  bright, 

And  youth  was  in  its  prime. 
Oh !  bright  were  then  the  skies 

In  the  glory  of  the  dawn,     . 
When  the  dews  that  gemm'd  the  grass 

Shone  in  the  rosy  morn. 


160 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Then  oped  the  garden  gate, 

And  down  the  bowery  lane, 
Hedg'd  in  with  elm  and  chestnut, 

My  hasty  path  was  ta'en ; 
And  to  the  brawling  brooks 

That  thro'  the  meadows  twine 
I  hurried  fast,  with  heart  elate, 

With  the  new  rod  and  line. 

When  this  old  rod  was  new, 

Full  oft  by  the  mill-dam  edge, 
Where  the  water-lilies  grew 

And  the  cat-tails  and  the  sedge, 
I  stood  on  the  bank,  and  threw 

My  line  for  the  perch  and  bream, 
In  the  cool,  transparent  stream, 

When  this  old  rod  was  new. 

And  up  where  the  mountain  brook 

Pour'd  swift  over  stone  and  sand, 
Over  yellow  sand  and  crystal  stone 

I've  stood  with  this  rod  in  hand. 
Then,  where  the  dark  eddies  whirl'd, 

In  the  shadow  of  pine  and  yew, 
I  cast  my  silken  tackle, 

When  this  old  rod  was  new. 

I  knew  that  under  the  bank, 
Where  deep  was  the  pool  scoop'd  out, 

Where  the  black  tree-roots  were  hidden, 
There  lurk'd  the  spotted  trout. 


THE  SALMON  RUN  161 

Then  cautious  and  muffled  my  step, 
And  skilful  the  cast  that  I  threw, 

And  glorious  captive  prizes 
When  this  old  rod  was  new. 

And  oft  on  the  ocean  border, 

Where  the  salt  sea-surges  beat, 
On  weedy  and  slippery  boulder, 

Have  I  stood  my  daring  feet; 
And  there  from  profound  abysses 

The  bass  from  their  caves  I  drew, 
Rejoicing  in  my  triumphs 

When  this  old  rod  was  new. 

And  now  that  the  silver  circlet 

Of  Time  on  my  head  is  laid, 
And  years  with  their  wintry  blossoms 

My  furrow'd  brow  invade, 
I  still  by  the  brook  and  seaside, 

Those  early  sports  renew, 
And  find  the  sport  as  pleasant 

As  when  this  old  rod  was  new. 

—Isaac  McLellan. 

THE  SALMON  RUN 

Oh!  away  to  the  Tweed, 

To  the  beautiful  Tweed, 
My  much  loved  native  stream, 

Where  the  fish  from  his  hold, 

'Neath  some  cataract  bold, 
Starts  up  like  a  quivering  gleam. 
11 


162 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

To  the  Tweed,  then,  so  pure, 

Where  the  wavelets  can  lure 
The  king  of  the  waters  to  roam, 

As  he  shoots  far  and  free, 

Thro'  the  boundless  sea, 
To  the  halls  of  his  silvery  home. 

From  his  iron-bound  keep, 

Far  down  in  the  deep 
He  holds  on  his  sovereign  sway; 

Or  darts  like  a  lance, 

Or  the  meteor's  glance, 
Afar  on  his  bright-winged  prey. 

As  he  roves  thro'  the  tide, 

Then  his  clear,  glittering  side 
Is  burnished  with  silver  and  gold, 

And  the  sweep  of  his  flight 

Seems  a  rainbow  of  light, 
As  again  he  sinks  down  in  his  hold. 

Oh!  then  hasten  with  speed 
To  the  clear  running  Tweed, 

The  river  of  beauty  and  song, 
Where  the  rod  swinging  high, 
Throws  a  Coldstream  dress'd  fly 

O'er  the  hold  of  the  salmon  so  strong. 

With  a  soft  western  breeze 
That  just  thrills  thro'  the  trees, 
And  ripples  the  beautiful  bay, 


THE  SALMON  RUN  163 

Throw  the  fly  for  a  lure — 
That's  a  rise !  strike  him  sure — 
A  clean  fish,  with  a  burst  he's  away. 

Hark !  the  ravel  line  sweel, 

From  the  fast  whirling  reel, 
With  a  music  that  gladdens  the  ear; 

And  the  thrill  of  delight, 

In  that  glorious  flight, 
To  the  heart  of  the  angler  is  dear. 

Hold  him  tight!  for  the  leap; 

Where  the  waters  are  deep, 
Give  out  line  in  the  far,  steady  run; 

Reel  up  quick,  if  he  tire, 

Tho'  the  wheel  be  on  fire, 
For  in  earnest  to  work  he's  begun. 

Aroused  up  at  length 

How  he  rolls  in  his  strength, 
And  springs  with  a  quivering  bound; 

Then  away  with  a  dash, 

Like  the  lightning's  flash 
Far  o'er  the  smooth  pebbly  ground. 

Tho'  he  strain  on  the  thread, 

Down  the  stream  with  his  head, 
That  burst  from  the  run  makes  him  cool, 

Then  spring  out  for  the  land, 

On  the  road  change  the  hand, 
And  draw  down  for  the  deepening  pool. 


164 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Mark  the  gleam  of  his  side 

As  he  shoots  thro'  the  tide — 
Are  the  dyes  of  the  dolphin  more  fair? 

Fatigue  now  begins, 

For  his  quivering  fins 
On  the  shallows  are  spread  in  despair. 

His  length  now  we'll  stretch 

On  the  smooth  sandy  beach, 
With  the  flap  from  his  gills  waxing  slow ; 

The  sport  of  an  hour 

Spent  the  strength  of  his  power, 
And  the  fresh-water  monarch  lies  low. 

-W.  A.  Foster. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


THE  HOLY-WELL  POOL 

When  the  month  is  happy  June, 
And  her  horns  forsake  the  moon — 
When  she  greets  us  round  and  full, 
Then  we'll  haunt  the  Holy-well  pool, 
Where  I  ween, 
'Neath  willow  green, 
Bright  fins  are  ever  gliding; 
'Mong  the  reeds 
And  water-weeds 
They  hold  their  wary  hiding. 

Not  by  moonlight  need  we  tread 
Mossy  bank  or  river-bed; 
No  living  things  'neath  moonlight  prowl, 
Save  beetle  and  bat  and  solemn  owl ; 


THE  HOLY-WELL  POOL 165 

As  she  rides 

The  old  trout  hides, 
Under  the  still  bank  deeper; 

Nor  sweet  fly 

Nor  minnow  shy 
Can  rouse  the  silent  sleeper. 

Rather  at  morn-tide  we  shall  go 
To  the  Holy-well  when  the  sun  is  low, 
Ere  the  bee  visits  the  new-burst  flower 
Or  the  noon  breeze  shakes  the  bower; 

Then  the  trout 

Sails  round  about 
Beyond  the  osier  bushes, 

Or  descries 

His  winged  prize 
Among  the  whispering  rushes. 

Then  we'll  seek  the  Holy-well, 
Or  when  eve  glides  up  the  dell, 
And  the  cushat  all  unseen 
Coos  among  the  larch-wood  green, 

Stealing  soft 

Along  the  croft 
We'll  beat  the  shady  water, 

Till  to  rest 

With  arm  opprest 
Night  turns  us  from  the  slaughter. 

—Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


166 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

FISHING  LINES 

When  spring  comes  and  the  days  are  warm, 
Then  I  begin  to  squirm 
To  hie  me  out  with  spade  and  hoe 
And  dig  a  little  worm. 
Then  to  the  river's  brink  I  haste 
And  sit  beneath  the  oaks, 
Where  slowly  through  my  trousers'  seat 
The  sticky  dampness  soaks. 

I  spit  upon  the  wriggling  bait, 
I  cast  the  hook  afar; 
And  then  mosquitoes,  flies,  and  gnats 
Apprise  me  where  they  are. 
They  swarm  and  sally  up  and  down, 
They're  surely  out  for  blood;— 
But  round  me  clings  a  glorious  smell, 
The  fishy  smell  of  mud. 

I  get  about  a  million  bites — 
Upon  my  hook,  I  mean ; 
A  million  worms  lay  down  their  lives, 
Worms  medium,  fat,  and  lean. 
Yet  nothing  landed.    Finny  brains 
My  utmost  skill  o'ermatch. — 
But  fishing  is  the  thing  that  counts, 
And  not  the  fish  you  catch. 

For  going  home  I'm  hungry,  yet 
My  hunger's  satisfied; 
I've  thought  the  thoughts  of  men  of  old; 
I've  dreamed;  I've  brushed  aside 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  LIGHT  167 

Small  moods  and  cares;  I've  lived,  for  once, 
As  every  heart  must  wish; 
And  thus,  you  see,  I've  caught  a  world 
Of  bigger  things  than  fish. 

— St.  Clair  Adams. 


THE   FISHERMAN'S   LIGHT 

The  air  is  still,  the  night  is  dark, 

No  ripple  breaks  the  dusky  tide; 
From  isle  to  isle  the  fisher's  bark, 

Like  fairy  meteor,  seems  to  glide, — 
Now  lost  in  shade,  now  flashing  bright; 

On  sleeping  wave  and  forest  tree, 
We  hail  with  joy  the  ruddy  light, 
Which  far  into  the  darksome  night 

Shines  red  and  cheerily. 

With  spear  high  poised  and  steady  hand, 

The  center  of  that  fiery  ray, 
Behold  the  skilful  fisher  stand, 

Prepared  to  strike  the  finny  prey. 
"Now,  now!"  the  shaft  has  sped  below, — 

Transfixed  the  shining  prize  we  see; 
On  swiftly  glides  the  birch  canoe, 
The  woods  send  back  the  long  halloo 

In  echoes  loud,  and  cheerily! 

Around  yon  bluff,  whose  pine  crest  hides 
The  noisy  rapids  from  our  sight, 

Another  bark!  another  glides! 
Red  spirits  of  the  murky  night ! 


168  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  bosom  of  the  silent  stream 
With  mimic  stars  is  dotted  free; 

The  tall  woods  lighten  in  the  beam, 
Through  darkness  shining  cheerily. 

— Susanna  Moodie. 

From  "The  Treasury  of  Canadian  Verse."    Permission  from  E.  P.  Dutton 
&Co. 


FLY  CASTING 

A  sport  that  lures  the  angler  on 
Amid  the  silvery  glint  and  gleam 

Of  eddy  cool,  or  silent  pool 
Along  the  shady  fishing  stream. 

The  pastime  with  a  thousand  thrills, 
Where  in  their  haunts  the  gamy  bass 

Bring  keen  delight  to  speed  the  flight 
Of  golden  hours  that  swiftly  pass. 

A  pleasure  that  revives  the  soul 

Depressed  by  work  and  worry's  sting, 

For  near  the  gleams  of  rippling  streams 
Cares  take  their  flight  and  Joy  is  king! 

—George  B.  Staff. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


SPEARING 

The  lake's  gold  and  purple  have  vanish'd  from  sight, 
The  glimmer  of  twilight  is  merged  into  night, 
The  woods  on  the  borders  in  blackness  are  mass'd, 
The  waters  in  motionless  ebony  glass'd, 


SPEARING  169 


The  stars  that  first  spangle  the  pearl  of  the  west 
Are  lost  in  the  bright  blazing  crowds  of  the  rest ; 
Light  the  torch! — launch  the  boat! — for  to-night  we 

are  here, 

The  salmon,  the  quick-darting  salmon,  to  spear. 
We  urge  our  light  craft  by  the  push  of  the  oar 
Through  the  serpent-like  stems  of  the  lilies  near  shore, 
And  turn  the  sharp  prow  at  yon  crescent-shaped  cove, 
Made  black  by  the  down-hanging  boughs  of  its  grove; 
The  meek  eddy-gurgle  that  whirls  at  our  dip, 
Sounds  low  as  the  wine-bead  which  bursts  on  the  lip; 
On  the  lake,  from  the  flame  of  our  torch,  we  behold 
A  pyramid  pictured  in  spangles  of  gold, 
And  the  marble-like  depths  on  each  side  of  the  blaze 
Are  full  of  dark  sparkles,  far  in  as  we  gaze; 
The  loon  from  his  nook  in  the  bank,  sends  a  cry; 
The  night-hawk  darts  down,  with  a  rush,  through  the 

sky; 

In  gutturals  hoarse,  on  his  green  shiny  log 
To  his  shrill  piping  tribe,  croaks  the  patriarch  frog; 
And  bleat,  low,  and  bark,  from  the  banks,  mingle  faint 
With  the  anchorite  whippoorwiU's  mournful  complaint. 
We  glide  in  the  cove;  let  the  torch  be  flared  low! 
The  spot  where  our  victim  is  lurking,  'twill  show; 
Midst  the  twigs  of  this  dead  sunken  tree-top  he  hies, 
Poise,  comrade,  your  spear!  or  farewell  to  our  prize! 
It  darts;  to  the  blow  his  best  efforts  are  bent, 
A  white  bubbling  streak  shows  its  rapid  descent; 
He  grasps  it  as  upward  it  shoots  through  the  air, 
Three  cheers  for  our  luck! — the  barb'd  victim  is  there! 
Give  way,  boys!  give  way,  boys!  our  prow  points  to 

shore, 


170  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Give  way,  boys!  give  way,  boys!  our  labor  is  o'er. 
As  the  black  mass  of  forest  our  torchlight  receives, 
It  breaks  into  groups  of  trunks,  branches,  and  leaves: 
Low  perch'd  on  the  hemlock,  we've  blinded  with  light 
Yon  gray-headed  owl! — See  him  flutter  from  sight! 
And  the  orator  frog,  as  we  glide  with  our  glow, 
Stops  his  speech  with  a  groan,  and  dives  splashing 

below; 

One  long  and  strong  pull — the  prow  grates  on  the  sand, 
Three  cheers  for  our  luck,  boys!  as  spring  we  to  land. 

—Alfred  Billings  Street. 


THE  ANGLER'S  POSSESSIONS 

He  has  rods  built  of  greenheart,  of  ash,  and  of  cane, 
And  though  some  may  be  short  and  some  may  be 
long, 

Still  it  is  a  display  he  can  show  when  he's  vain, 
Of  anglers  and  angling  and  rods  that  are  strong. 

He  has  reels  and  has  lines  of  various  sizes, 

Which  have  aided  him  well  with  salmon  and  trout; 

His  children  adorned  are  with  sundry  won  prizes, 
Which  time  and  good  fortune  have  caused  come 
about. 

He  has  creels  and  has  nets  and  has  gaffs  quite  a  lot, 
And  waders  and  oilskins  to  weather  the  storms; 

He  has  Phantoms  and  Devons  and  split  leaden  shot, 
And  traces  and  tapers  in  many  good  forms. 


THE  ANGLER'S  POSSESSIONS          171 

He  has  flies  in  abundance — his  store  of  delight — 
Encased  in  a  book  which  is  bulky  and  stout, 

Which  can  always  ensure  him  a  leisure  hour  bright 
When  he's  pensive  at  home  or  else  when  without. 

He  has  boxes  in  number  for  minnows  and  casts; 

A  selection  of  minnows,  gold,  blue,  and  red; 
Some  lures  made  of  rubber,  a  substance  which  lasts, 

And  sinkers  in  plenty  formed  of  pure  lead. 

He  has  hand-lines  and  bait-cans  for  fishing  the  sea, 
And  the  rods  with  the  rings  of  porcelain  white; 

Paternosters  with  swivels  and  hooks  that  will  be 
Able  to  hold  any  fish  that  may  bite. 

He  has  baskets  for  lunch  and  has  flasks  for  hot  tea, 
And  luxuries  many  with  sport  fit  to  blend; 

He  has  full  stocks  of  joy  and  of  happiest  glee, 
With  a  big  share  of  everything  angling  can  lend. 

But,  alas !  all  too  soon  with  his  gear  he  must  part, 
And  leave  it  behind  for  another  to  get ; 

And  all  he  can  hope  for  is  that  it  will  impart 
The  silent,  deep  joy  which  he  cannot  forget. 

— Erskine  Houston. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream.'! 


172 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  RIVER 

Through  sun-bright  lakes, 

Round  islets  gay, 
The  river  takes 
Its  western  way, 

And  the  water-chime 
Soft  zephyrs  time 
Each  gladsome  summer  day. 

The  starry  trout, 
Fair  to  behold, 
Roameth  about 
On  fin  of  gold; 
At  root  of  tree 
His  haunt  you  may  see, 
Rude  rock  or  crevice  old. 

And  hither  dart 

The  salmon  grey, 
From  the  deep  heart 
Of  some  sea-bay ; 
And  herling  wild 
Is  here  beguiled 
To  hold  autumnal  play. 

Oh !  'tis  a  stream 

Most  fair  to  see, 
As  in  a  dream 
Flows  pleasantly; 

And  our  hearts  are  woo'd 
To  a  kind  sweet  mood 
By  its  wondrous  witchery. 

—Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


THE  TROUT  SEASON  WIDOW          173 

THE  TROUT  SEASON  WIDOW 

Your  wife's  often  wishing 

In  May  or  in  June 
You  didn't  need  fishing 

To  keep  you  in  tune. 
It  really  is  rotten 

To  lead  such  a  life — 
You've  almost  forgotten 

The  fact  you've  a  wife. 

And  so  you  go  wander 

With  rod  and  with  line 
Some  woodland  up  yonder 

Of  spruce  or  of  pine 
And  leave  her  complaining 

At  home  all  alone, 
Each  moment  maintaining 

How  heartless  you've  grown. 

But,  gee,  how  they're  calling! — 

The  woods  and  the  stream, 
Where  waters  are  falling, 

A-glitter,  a-gleam. 
Of  course  you  still  love  her — 

You  love,  without  doubt, 
But  one  thing  above  her, 

And  that  is  a  trout. 

It's  just  the  old  Adam, 

Man  back  in  his  groove. 
To  quiet  the  madam 

It's  easy  to  prove 


174  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

In  the  Bible  you  read  in, 

As  all  can  perceive, 
That  Adam  loved  Eden 

Before  he  loved  Eve! 

— Douglas  Malloch. 

CASTIN' 

My  mind,  sech  as  it  is,  ain't  nowise  plural, 
I'm  what  they  call  "A  man  o'  one  idee," 
An'  that's  to  set  where  things  is  ca'm  an'  rural, 
An'  cast,  an'  cast,  an'  ketch  a  fish — maybe. 

When  daown  the  road  the  City  folks  come  glidin', 
Their  autymobiles  don't  appeal  to  me; 

I'd  ruther  see  braown,  dimpled  water  slidin' 
Where  I  c'n  cast,  an'  ketch  a  fish — maybe. 

An'  when  fer  me  the  heavenly  bells  are  ringin', 

I'll  gladly  set  beside  the  Jasper  Sea, 
An'  let  the  other  angels  do  the  singin', 

Ef  I  c'n  cast,  an'  ketch  a  fish — maybe. 

—Elsie  D.  Willis. 

Permission  of  "Outing  Magazine." 

SPRING 

Now  when  the  first  foul  torrent  of  the  brooks, 
Swell'd  with  the  vernal  rains,  is  ebb'd  away : 
And,  whitening,  down  their  mossy-tinctured  stream 
Descends  the  billowy  foam;  now  is  the  time, 
While  yet  the  dark-brown  water  aids  the  guile, 
To  tempt  the  trout.    The  well-dissembled  fly, 


SPRING  175 


The  rod  fine-tapering  with  elastic  spring, 
Snatch'd  from  the  hoary  steed  the  floating  line, 
And  all  thy  slender  watery  stores  prepare. 
But  let  not  on  thy  hook  the  tortur'd  worm, 
Convulsive,  twist  in  agonizing  folds: 
Which,  by  rapacious  hunger  swallow'd  deep, 
Gives,  as  you  tear  it  from  the  bleeding  breast 
Of  the  weak,  helpless,  uncomplaining  wretch, 
Harsh  pain  and  horror  to  the  tender  hand. 

When,  with  his  lively  ray,  the  potent  sun 
Has  pierced  the  streams,  and  roused  the  finny  race, 
Then  issuing  cheerful,  to  thy  sport  repair; 
Chief  should  the  western  breezes  curling  play, 
And  light  o'er  ether  bear  the  shadowy  clouds. 
High  to  their  fount,  this  day,  amid  the  hills, 
And  woodlands  warbling  round,  trace  up  the  brooks ; 
The  next,  pursue  their  rocky-channel'd  maze, 
Down  to  the  river,  in  whose  ample  wave 
Their  little  naiads  love  to  sport  at  large. 
Just  in  the  dubious  point,  where  with  the  pool 
Is  mix'd  the  trembling  stream,  or  where  it  boils 
Around  the  stone,  or  from  the  hollow'd  bank, 
Reverted  plays  in  undulating  flow, 
There  throw,  nice-judging,  the  delusive  fly; 
And,  as  you  lead  it  round  in  artful  curve, 
With  eye  attentive  mark  the  springing  game. 
Straight  as  above  the  surface  of  the  flood 
They  wanton  rise,  or  urged  by  hunger,  leap, 
Then  fix,  with  gentle  twitch,  the  barbed  hook: 
Some  lightly  tossing  to  the  grassy  bank, 


176  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  to  the  shelving  shore  slow  dragging  some, 
With  various  hand  proportion'd  to  their  force. 
If  yet  too  young,  and  easily  deceived, 
A  worthless  prey  scarce  bends  your  pliant  rod, 
Him,  piteous  of  his  youth,  and  the  short  space 
He  has  enjoy 'd  the  vital  light  of  heaven, 
Soft  disengage,  and  back  into  the  stream 
The  speckled  infant  throw.    But  should  you  lure 
From  his  dark  haunt,  beneath  the  tangled  roots 
Of  pendent  trees,  the  monarch  of  the  brook, 
Behooves  you  then  to  ply  your  finest  art. 
Long  time  he,  following  cautious,  scans  the  fly; 
And  oft  attempts  to  seize  it,  but  as  oft 
The  dimpled  water  speaks  his  jealous  fear. 
At  last,  while  haply  o'er  the  shaded  sun 
Passes  a  cloud,  he  desperate  takes  the  death, 
With  sullen  plunge.    At  once  he  darts  along, 
Deep-struck,  and  runs  out  all  the  lengthened  line; 
Then  seeks  the  farthest  ooze,  the  sheltering  weed, 
The  cavern'd  bank,  his  old  secure  abode; 
And  flies  aloft,  and  flounces  round  the  pool, 
Indignant  of  the  guile.    With  yielding  hand, 
That  feels  him  still,  yet  to  his  furious  course 
Gives  way,  you,  now  retiring,  following  now 
Across  the  stream,  exhaust  his  idle  rage, 
Till,  floating  broad  upon  his  breathless  side, 
And  to  his  fate  abandon'd,  to  the  shore 
You  gaily  drag  your  unresisting  prize. 

— James  Thomson. 

From  "The  Seasons." 


WHERE  THE  REDEYES  BITE          177 


WHERE  THE  REDEYES  BITE 

When  the  redeyes  bite, 

Down  along  the  little  stream, 
Where  the  quiet  pools  are  waiting, 

And  the  singing  riffles  gleam, 
Where  the  angler  seeks  the  outdoors 

With  a  thrill  of  new  delight, 
As  he  finds  again  the  old  haunts 

Where  the  redeyes  bite. 

When  the  redeyes  bite, 

And  the  baited  line  will  shoot 
With  a  sort  of  zigzag  jerking 

Down  among  the  willow  root, 
Where  a  big  old  husky  fellow 

That  is  hooked  and  full  of  fight, 
Has  opened  up  the  season 

When  the  redeyes  bite. 

When  the  redeyes  bite, 

With  the  city  far  behind, 
Just  a  day  of  plain  old  fishing 

Where  the  rippling  waters  wind, 
As  they  lure  the  care-free  angler 

From  the  early  dawn  till  night, 
To  the  shady  pools  and  driftwood, 

Where  the  redeyes  bite ! 

— George  B.  Staff. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


12 


178  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  REAL  BAIT 

To  gentle  ways  I  am  inclined; 

I  have  no  wish  to  kill. 
To  creatures  dumb  I  would  be  kind ; 

I  like  them  all,  but  still 
Right  now  I  think  I'd  like  to  be 

Beside  some  rippling  brook, 
And  grab  a  worm  I'd  brought  with  me 

And  slip  him  on  a  hook. 

I'd  like  to  put  my  hand  once  more 

Into  a  rusty  can 
And  turn  those  squirmy  creatures  o'er 

Like  nuggets  in  a  pan ; 
And  for  a  big  one,  once  again, 

With  eager  eyes  I'd  look, 
As  did  a  boy  I  knew,  and  then 

Impale  it  on  a  hook. 

I've  had  my  share  of  fishing  joy, 

I've  fished  with  patent  bait, 
With  chub  and  minnow,  but  the  boy 

Is  lord  of  sport's  estate. 
And  no  such  pleasure  comes  to  man 

So  rare  as  when  he  took 
A  worm  from  a  tomato  can 

And  slipped  it  on  a  hook. 

I'd  like  to  gaze  with  glowing  eyes 

Upon  that  precious  bait, 
To  view  each  fat  worm  as  a  prize 

To  be  accounted  great. 


A  FISHERMAN  IN  TOWN  179 

And  though  I've  passed  from  boyhood's 
term, 

And  opened  age's  book, 
I  still  would  like  to  put  a  worm 

That  wriggled  on  a  hook. 

— Edgar  A.  Guest. 

From  "A  Heap  o*  Livin'."    Copyrighted  by  and  permission  from  Reilly 
&  Lee  Co. 


A  FISHERMAN  IN  TOWN 

I  jest  set  here  a-dreamin' — 

A-dreamin'  every  day, 
Of  the  sunshine  that's  a-gleamin' 

On  the  rivers — fur  away; 

An'  I  kinder  fall  to  wishin' 
I  was  where  the  waters  swish; 

Fer  if  the  Lord  made  fishin', 
Why— a  feller  orter  fish! 

While  I'm  study  in',  or  writin', 
In  the  dusty,  rusty  town, 

I  kin  feel  the  fish  a-bitin' — 
See  the  cork  a-goin'  down ! 

An'  the  sunshine  seems  a-tanglin' 
Of  the  shadows,  cool  an'  sweet; 

With  the  honeysuckles  danglin', 
An'  the  lilies  at  my  feet! 


180  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

So,  I  nod,  an'  fall  to  wishin' 

I  was  where  the  waters  swish ; 
Fer  if  the  Lord  made  fishin', 

Why—a  feller  orter  fish! 

— Frank  L.  Stanton. 

Printed  in  and  permission  from  "The  Atlanta  Constitution." 


SPRING  IS  ON  THE  WIRE 

When  wistful,  balmy  breezes  whisper  to  you  in  the  air, 
And  breath  of  green  grass  growing  finds  its  way  o'er 

building  tops, 
And  ghosts  of  apple  blossoms  drift  in  from  the  vague 

somewhere, 
You  know  that  Spring  is  nearing  by  these  little  hints 

she  drops. 

Oh  to  be  a  kid  again, 
Do  the  things  you  did  again, 

And  shake  from  off  your  weary  shoulders  Time's 
increasing  load; 

Tramp  with  sun-tanned  feet  again 
Free  as  air  to  greet  again 

The  olden  golden  sunshine  spread  along  the  dusty 
road. 

Now  you  should  not  have  raised  that  window  and  let 

Spring  Fever  in — 
She's  at  the  old  transmitter  and  she's  sent  a  call  for 

you; 


SPRING  IS  ON  THE  WIRE  181 

Your  work  is  piled  up  mountain-high,  and  no  place  to 

begin; 
A  thousand  things  that  must  be  done,  not  one  you  want 

to  do! 

Oh  to  be  a  boy  again, 

And  to  feel  the  joy  again 
Of  monarch's  mighty  treasure  in  a  rusty  old  tin  can ; 

Tote  the  sapling  pole  again 

To  the  fishing  hole  again 

Where    friendly    willow    trees    have    spread    their 
branches  like  a  fan. 

The  figures  won't  stay  added,  imps  shove  them  out  of 
line; 

Your  eyes  can't  help  but  wander  to  the  sky's  expansive 
blue. 

The  ledgers  are  all  muddled — "Ting-a-ling!  the  fish- 
ing's fine!" 

Yes,  Spring  is  on  long-distance,  and  she's  calling — 
calling — you. 

Just  to  hear  the  swish  again 
Of  a  struggling  fish  again, 
Your  heart  be  set  a-tingle  by  the  tug  upon  your 

hand; 

See  the  silver  gleam  again 
Leap  out  of  the  stream  again, 
And  watch  a  million  pounds  of  joy  come*  wiggling  to 
the  land! 


182  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

You  feel  quite  sorry  for  yourself  for  your  fishing  days 
are  few; 

Time's  busy  with  his  nippers  and  he's  pulling  out  your 
hair — 

You're  ALL  OF  FORTY-FIVE!  and  aging  every  min- 
ute, too; 

Your  forehead's  getting  wrinkled  with  the  furrows 
plowed  by  care. 

Oh  to  cast  the  line  again 
In  shadow  or  sunshine  again, 

And  hear  the  waters  laughing  in  the  dear  old  fishing 
hole; 

Just  one  day  to  be  again 
A  boy  so  gladly  free  again, 

And  strip  off  all  the  sorrows  years  have  tightened 
round  your  soul. 


You  shut  the  desk  with  vigor,  make  yourself  believe 

you're  mad. 
Sigh  with  a  hopeless  gesture  at  the  things  that  you 

must  do! 
But  you  could  hug  that  kid  who  called  you,  best  friend 

you  ever  had, — 
You're  off!— He  is  the  spirit  of  the  boy  that's  left 

in  you. 

So  you  go  out  to  fish  again, 

To  dream,  to  hope,  to  wish  again, — 


WITH  ROD  AND  REEL 183 

A  freckled  lad  smiles  up  at  you  from  out  the  water's 
brim; 

You  catch  the  gleam  of  youth  again, 
The  old-time  faith  and  truth  again, 
And  it  was  only  yesterday  you  said  goodbye  to  him ! 

—Joseph  Morris. 


WITH  ROD  AND  REEL 

With  rod  and  reel  the  toiler  plays, 

And  dreams  of  long  vacation  days, 
When  he  shall  float  on  grassy  deeps 
And  cast  the  gleaming  lure  that  sweeps 

Athwart  the  hungry  bass's  gaze. 

Once  more  he  scorns  the  careful  phrase, 
The  irksome  yoke  of  urban  ways, 
And  scents  the  joy  the  sportsman  reaps 
With  rod  and  reel. 

He  sees  far,  forest-girted  bays 
Reflect  dawn's  iridescent  grays; 

For  there  he  knows  the  fierce  bass  keeps 
A  constant  vigil — there  it  leaps 
And  takes  the  lures  the  sportsmen  raise 
With  rod  and  reel. 

— Ray  Clarke  Rose. 

From  "At  the  Sign  of  the  Ginger  Jar,"  A.  C.  McQurg  &  Co. 


184  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  OLD  ANGLER'S  DREAM 

When  cares  of  life  begin  to  trace 
Faint  lines  and  wrinkles  on  the  face, 

And  change  brown  hairs  to  gray, 
Then  memory  gives  the  power  to  me 
To  bid  dull  care  and  sorrow  flee, 
For  in  my  mind  once  more  I  see 

The  scenes  of  youth's  bright  day. 

Again  the  quiet  fields  I  view, 

And  mountain  stream  that  once  I  knew: 

Its  music  I  still  hear: — 
The  babbling  music  of  the  brook, 
Whose  every  pool  and  shady  nook 
I  used  to  search  with  baited  hook 

In  crystal  water  clear. 

I  fished  alone,  but  the  wild  stream 
Was  the  companion  of  my  dream, 

It  talked  and  sang  to  me; 
The  ripples  on  their  beds  of  stone 
Sang  a  sweet  music  of  their  own : — 
Oh,  no,  I  never  felt  alone, 

Hearing  such  melody. 

The  screaming  kingfisher,  the  mink, 
Who  from  my  very  feet  would  slink, 

The  joy  of  sky-born  hue, 
The  booming  grouse,  whose  startling  flight 
Roused  in  the  breast  a  passing  fright, 
The  tanager  of  plumage  bright 

Were  my  companions,  too. 


MY  LADY  FISHES 185 

Amid  such  sights  and  sounds  to  fish 
It  is  the  old  man's  dearest  wish, 

His  youth  again  to  find; 
No  man  is  old  who  in  his  heart 
With  that  fond  dream  will  never  part : 

The  rushing  stream, 

The  angler's  dream! 
Oh,  may  that  dream  forever  start 

Within  the  care-worn  mind ! 

-William  E.  Elliott  ("Pwcator"). 

Permission  of  "The  American  Angler." 


MY  LADY  FISHES 

With  reel  and  rod  in  hand 
My  lady  sits  in  the  prow, 
Hope  beaming  on  her  brow — 

Yes,  I've  seen  that  look  on  land. 

The  line  gives  a  sudden  swish 
And  a  lightning  twist  to  the  tip: 
My  lady,  with  tight-pressed  lip, 

Is  beginning  to  play  her  fish. 

Sometime  on  shore 

I've  seen  that  look  before. 

There  are  flashes  in  the  sun, 

There  are  rushes  quick  and  strong, 
And  the  reel  sings  forth  its  song 

While  my  lady  lets  him  run. 

On  her  face 


186  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

There  is  no  trace 

Of  fear 

For  skill  or  fishing-gear. 

Somewhere  and — time  on  shore 

I've  seen  that  look  of  confidence  before. 

At  last  the  line  becomes  less  tight, 
The  rushes  now  are  weak  and  few. 
The  gamy  victim  comes  to  view; 

He's  almost  given  up  the  fight: 

There's  a  last  quick  flip; 

But  a  sudden  dip 

Of  the  net,  and  neat, 

Lands  the  fish  at  my  lady's  feet. 

Somewhere  and — time  upon  the  shore 
I've  seen  the  look  of  triumph  that  she  wore. 
— Frederick  Getcheli 

Permission  of  "The  Century  Magazine." 

ON  ETTRICK  FOREST'S  MOUNTAINS  DUN 

On  Ettrick  Forest's  mountains  dun, 
'Tis  blithe  to  hear  the  sportsman's  gun, 
And  seek  the  heath-frequenting  brood 
Far  through  the  noonday  solitude ; 
By  many  a  cairn  and  trenched  mound, 
Where  chiefs  of  yore  sleep  lone  and  sound, 
And  springs,  where  grey-hair'd  shepherds  tell 
That  still  the  fairies  love  to  dwell. 


ETTRICK  FOREST'S  MOUNTAINS  DUN    187 

Along  the  silver  streams  of  Tweed, 
Tis  blithe  the  mimic  fly  to  lead, 
When  to  the  hook  the  salmon  springs, 
And  the  line  whistles  through  the  rings; 
The  boiling  eddy  see  him  try, 
Then  dashing  from  the  current  high, 
Till  watchful  eye  and  cautious  hand 
Have  led  his  wasted  strength  to  land. 

'Tis  blithe  along  the  midnight  tide, 
With  stalwart  arm  the  boat  to  guide; 
On  high  the  dazzling  blaze  to  rear, 
And  heedful  plunge  the  barb&d  spear; 
Rock,  wood,  and  scaur,  emerging  bright, 
Fling  on  the  stream  their  ruddy  light, 
And  from  the  bank  our  band  appears 
Like  Genii,  arm'd  with  fiery  spears. 

Tis  blithe  at  eve  to  tell  the  tale, 
How  we  succeed,  and  how  we  fail, 
Whether  at  Alwyn's  lordly  meal, 
Or  lowlier  board  of  Ashestiel; 
While  the  gay  tapers  cheerly  shine, 
Bickers  the  fire,  and  flows  the  wine — 
Days  free  from  thought,  and  nights  from  care, 
My  blessing  on  the  Forest  fair ! 

Walter  Scott. 


188 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

BY  THE  STREAM 

Where  the  river  seeks  the  cover 

Of  the  trees  whose  boughs  hang  over, 

And  the  slopes  are  green  with  clover 

In  the  quiet  month  of  May; 
Where  the  eddies  meet  and  mingle, 
Babbling  o'er  the  stony  shingle, 
There  1  angle 
There  I  dangle, 
All  the  day. 

Oh,  'tis  sweet  to  feel  the  plastic 
Rod,  with  top  and  butt  elastic, 
Shoot  the  line  in  coils  fantastic, 
Till,  like  thistle-down,  the  fly 
Lightly  drops  upon  the  water, 
Thirsting  for  the  finny  slaughter, 
As  I  angle 
And  I  dangle, 
Mute  and  sly. 

Then  I  gently  shake  the  tackle, 
Till  the  barbed  and  fatal  hackle 
In  its  tempered  jaws  shall  shackle 

That  old  trout  so  wary  grown. 
Now  I  strike  him! — joy  elastic! 
Scouring  runs! — leaps  acrobatic! 
So  I  angle, 
So  I  dangle, 
All  alone. 


FISHING  189 


Then  when  grows  the  sun  too  fervent, 
And  the  lurking  trouts,  observant, 
Say  to  me,  "Your  humble  servant! 

Now  we  see  your  treacherous  hook!" 
Maud,  as  if  by  hazard  wholly, 
Saunters  down  the  pathway  slowly, 
While  I  angle, 
There  to  dangle 
With  her  hook. 

Then  somehow  the  rod  reposes, 
And  the  book  no  page  incloses; 
But  I  read  the  leaves  of  roses 

That  unfold  upon  her  cheek ; 
And  her  small  hand,  white  and  tender, 
Rests  in  mine.  Ah!  what  can  send  her 
Thus  to  dangle, 
While  I  angle? 
Cupid,  speak! 

— Fttz-James  O'Brien. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 

FISHING 

On  the  cooling  bank 
Patiently  musing,  all  intent  I  stand 
To  hook  the  scaly  glutton.    See !  down  sinks 
My  cork,  that  faithful  monitor;  his  weight 
My  taper  angle  bends;  surprised,  amaz'd, 
He  glitters  in  the  sun,  and  struggling,  pants 
For  liberty,  till  in  the  purer  air 

He  breathes  no  more. 

— William  Somerville. 


190  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  FISHERMAN 

A  many  men  there  be  that  go, 
Free-booted,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Athwart  God's  open,  sun-kissed  ways, 
Their  hearts  o'erbrimming  with  the  praise 
Of  all  the  wilding  things  that  are 
Beneath  the  steadfast  sun  and  star; 
And  foremost  of  this  roving  clan 
I  love  the  ardent  fisherman ! 

He  carries  still  within  his  breast 
An  incommunicable  zest 
A  fervor  that  may  never  tire, 
A  flame  unwavering,  a  desire 
Unquenchable  as  is  the  dawn, 
That  leads  him  on  and  ever  on; 
And  though  he's  fain  of  spoil,  at  root 
His  primal  passion  is  pursuit ! 

His  pulses  throb  and  thrill  to  feel 
The  vibrant  whirring  of  his  reel ; 
Elation  fills  him  when  he  spies 
Upon  his  line  the  gleaming  prize; 
Yet  when  the  sunset  embers  burn 
Low  in  the  twilight's  purple  urn, 
And  he  has  no  reward  to  show, 
Is  he  dark-browed  and  doleful  ?    No ! 

Another  day,  another  hour, 

Fortune  may  yield  her  shining  shower ! 


THE  INVETERATE  ANGLER  191 

Still  in  his  bosom  bides  the  lure 
As  fixed  as  is  the  cynosure. 
It  is  the  striving,  not  the  gain, 
That  lifts  us  to  the  loftiest  plane; 
The  quest,  although  we  miss  the  goal, 
That  stays  the  fiber  of  the  soul ! 

And  so,  whate'er  his  class  or  clan, 
I  love  the  ardent  fisherman ! 

— Clinton  Scollard. 

From  "The  New  York  Sun." 

THE  INVETERATE  ANGLER 

Barefoot  and  freckled  he  began, 

A  boy,  in  old  Ohio's  holes, 
To  fish  with  wriggling  worms  for  cats 

And  yank  them  out  with  hickory  poles. 

With  added  years,  young  manhood's  pride 

Plebian  catfish  learned  to  flout ; 
He  tossed  the  humble  worm  aside, 

And  cast  the  fly  for  bass  and  trout. 

Time  passed,  and  now  upon  the  brine 

That  washes  California's  isles, 
He  matched  his  strength  and  tackle  fine 

Against  the  leaping  tuna's  wiles. 

Strength  fails ;  the  frost  is  on  his  locks, 
And  trembling  age  his  frame  doth  warp, 

But  slow  he  hobbles  to  the  docks 
And  fishes  for  the  sluggish  carp. 


192  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  when,  with  trumpet  to  his  lip, 

The  herald  angel  stands  in  sight, 
He'll  hook  another  worm  and  call, 

"Wait,  Gabriel!  just  another  bite!" 

-W.  H.  Johnson. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 

WHAT  BOTHERS  HIM 

There  ain't  so  much  o'  pleasure 

In  fishin'  South  in  May, 
Or  any  other  blessed  month — 

No  matter  what  they  say ! 

Because  the  river  bank  is  green; 

The  grass  is  soft  an'  deep, 
An'  where  the  shady  willows  lean 

A  feller  falls  to  sleep. 

An'  jest  when  he  begins  to  nod 

'Longside  his  empty  cup, 
A  fish  comes  jerkin'  at  his  rod 

An'  always  wakes  him  up! 

— Frank  L.  Stanton. 

Printed  in  and  permission  from  "The  Atlanta  Constitution." 

BLACK-BASS-FISHING  IN  WESTERN  STREAMS 

In  Western  rivers  dark  and  deep 

That  flow  thro'  open  prairie  land, 
Past  sandy  bluff  and  wooded  steep, 

Thro'  solemn  forests  lone  and  grand, 
The  dusky  black  bass  float  and  swim, 
Or  o'er  the  placid  surface  skim. 


KING  AND  KID 193 

In  shallows  of  the  river-reach 
Where  rock  and  pebbles  chafe  the  tide, 

Where  o'er  white  gravel  and  the  sand 
The  rushing  waters  foam  and  glide, 

There  oft  the  angler  with  his  fly 

Takes  the  black  rovers  where  they  lie. 

But  often  in  the  middle  deeps 
Where  fathomless  the  water  sleeps, 

Or  where  some  stony  dam  or  pier, 
Obstructs  the  currents'  swift  career, 

There  oft  the  struggling,  finny  spoil 

Rewards  the  angler's  patient  toil. 

— Isaac  McLellan. 

KING  AND  KID 

The  King  sat  up  on  his  jeweled  throne,  and  he 
heaved  a  sigh  that  was  like  a  groan,  for  his  crown  was 
hard,  and  it  bruised  his  head,  and  his  scepter  weighed 
like  a  pig  of  lead;  the  ladies  smirked  as  they  came  to 
beg;  the  knights  were  pulling  the  royal  leg.  The  King 
exclaimed:  "If  I  had  my  wish,  I  would  cut  this  out, 
and  I'd  go  and  fish.  For  what  is  pomp  to  a  weary  soul 
that  yearns  and  yearns  for  the  fishing  pole ;  the  throne's 
a  bore  and  the  crown  a  gawd,  and  I'd  swap  the  lot  for 
a  bamboo  rod,  and  a  can  of  worms  and  a  piece  of  string 
— but  there's  no  such  luck  for  a  poor  old  king!"  And 
a  boy  who  passed  by  the  palace  high,  to  fish  for  trout 
in  the  streamlet  nigh,  looked  up  in  .awe  at  the  massive 
walls,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  marble  halls,  and 
said  to  himself:  "Oh,  hully  chee!  Wisht  I  was  the 

13 


194 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

king,  and  the  king  was  me !  To  reign  all  day  with  your 
crown  on  straight  is  a  whole  lot  better'n  diggin'  bait, 
and  fishin'  round  when  the  fish  won't  bite,  and  gettin' 
licked  for  your  luck  at  night!" — Walt  Mason. 

From  "Walt  Mason:  His  Book,"  Barse  &  Hopkins. 


AN  OLD  SONG 

Man's  life  is  but  vain; 

For  'tis  subject  to  pain, 
And  sorrow,  and  short  as  a  bubble: 

Tis  a  hodge-podge  of  business, 

And  money,  and  care; 
And  care,  and  money,  and  trouble. 

But  we'll  take  no  care, 

When  the  weather  proves  fair ; 
Nor  will  we  vex  now  tho'  it  rain ; 

We'll  banish  all  sorrow, 

And  sing  till  to-morrow, 
And  angle  and  angle  again. 

— Anonymous. 


THE  FISHERMAN 

The  crystal  current  streams  continually  I  keep, 
Where  every  pearl-pav'd  ford  and  every  blue-ey'd  deep, 
With  me  familiar  are;  when  in  my  boat  being  set, 
My  oars  I  take  in  hand,  my  angle  and  my  net 
About  me,  like  a  prince  myself  in  state  I  steer, 
Now  up,  now  down  the  stream,  now  am  I  here,  now 
there, 


THE  FISHERMAN 195 

The  pilot  and  the  fraught  myself;  and  at  my  ease 
Can  land  me  when  I  list,  or  in  what  place  I  please; 
The  silver-scaled  shoals,  about  me  in  the  streams, 
As  thick  as  ye  discern  the  atoms  in  the  beams, 
Near  to  the  shady  bank  where  slender  sallies  grow, 
And  willows  their  shagg'd  tops  down  towards  the  waters 

bow, 

I  shove  in  with  my  boat  to  shield  me  from  the  heat, 
Where,  choosing  from  my  bag  some  prov'd  especial  bait, 
The  goodly,  well-grown  trout  I  with  my  angle  strike, 
And  with  my  bearded  wire  I  take  the  ravenous  pike, 
Of  whom  when  I  have  hold,  he  seldom  breaks  away, 
Though  at  my  line's  full  length  so  long  I  let  him  play, 
Till  by  my  hand  I  find  he  well-near  weari'd  be, 
When  softly  by  degrees  I  draw  him  up  to  me. 
The  lusty  salmon  too,  I  oft  with  angling  take, 
Which  me  above  the  rest  most  lordly  sport  doth  make, 
Who,  feeling  he  is  caught,  such  frisks  and  bounds  doth 

fetch, 

And  by  his  very  strength  my  line  so  far  doth  stretch, 
As  draws  my  floating  cork  down  to  the  very  ground, 
And,  wresting  of  my  rod,  doth  make  my  boat  turn 

round. 

I  never  idle  am;  sometimes  I  bait  my  weels, 
With  which  by  night  I  take  the  dainty  silver  eels ; 
And  with  my  draught-net  then  I  sweep  the  streaming 

flood, 

And  to  my  trammel  next  and  cast-net  from  the  mud 
I  beat  the  scaly  brood;  no  hours  I  idly  spend, 
But  wearied  with  my  work  I  bring  the  day  to  end. 

— Michael  Drayton. 

From  "The  Muses'  Elysium." 


196 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

FISHING 

With  hickory  switch  and  linen  twine 

He  sits  upon  the  country  bridge; 
Below  him,  where  the  sun-rays  shine, 

Across  the  water  glides  a  midge; 
The  cat-tails  to  the  ripples  tip, 

And  crawfish  mould  their  cells  of  clay, 
And  wandering  swallows  downward  dip 

An  instant  there  and  then  away. 

Beside  him  is  the  homely  can 

That  holds  the  bait,  and  by  his  side 
A  yellow  dog  a  rataplan 

Beats  on  the  oaken  timbers  wide; 
Slow  swims  the  cork  and  then  it  drifts, 

And  bobs  and  sinks  and  wavers  there, 
While  bends  the  switch  as  quick  he  lifts 

A  wriggling  sunfish  through  the  air. 

The  meadows  ring  with  melody 

From  rapturous  fluttering  bobolinks, 
And  on  a  blackened  fallen  tree 

Is  stretched,  as  solemn  as  the  Sphinx, 
An  old  mud-turtle's  awkward  form, 

And  dragon  flies  about  him  skim, 
Out  where  the  sunlight  dances  warm, 

And  in  where  shadows  hover  dim. 

I  grant  you  all  you  else  may  claim 
When  manhood  seeks  its  fullest  due, 

I  grant  you  honor,  place  and  fame, 
I  grant  that  she  you  loved  was  true; 


FISHING  197 


I  grant  you  gray  in  year,  and  rich, 
So  that  you  but  could  give  me  then 

The  brook,  the  fish,  the  hickory  switch, 
And  time  to  be  a  boy  again. 

— Ernest  McGaffey. 


FISHING 

Oh,  fishing  isn't  fishing, 

If  fishing  doesn't  mean 
A  generous  lot  of  loafing 

In  a  pleasant  rural  scene. 
With  a  baited  hook  to  dangle 

In  the  waters,  up  and  down, 
A  thousand  miles  from  trouble 

And  a  half  day's  ride  from  town. 
Where  the  endless  line  of  waters 

Unfailing  vigil  keep, 
And  it  isn't  counted  treason 

If  you  chance  to  fall  asleep. 

Oh,  fishing  isn't  fishing, 

If  fishing  doesn't  mean 
A  joy  in  dancing  waters 

And  vistas,  cool  and  green. 
With  a  slender  pole  to  cling  to 

Lest  Izaac  Walton  frown, 
A  thousand  miles  from  trouble 

And  a  half  day's  ride  from  town. 


198 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

For  then  Life's  worth  the  living 

With  less  of  woe  than  weal, 
Though  you  homeward  turn  at  nightfall 

With  just  an  empty  creel. 

—Lalia  Mitchell. 

Printed  in  and  permission  from  "Rod  and  Gun  in  Canada." 

A  BOY'S  SONG 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep, 
Where  the  grey  trout  lies  asleep, 
Up  the  river  and  o'er  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  blackbird  sings  the  latest, 
Where  the  hawthorn  blooms  the  sweetest, 
Where  the  nestlings  chirp  and  flee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  mowers  mow  the  cleanest, 
Where  the  hay  lies  thick  and  greenest, 
There  to  track  the  homeward  bee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  hazel  bank  is  steepest, 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest, 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 


But  this  I  know,  I  love  to  play 
Through  the  meadow,  among  the  hay, 
Up  the  water  and  o'er  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

— James  Hogg. 


WE'VE  ALL  SEEN  HIM  199 


WE'VE  ALL  SEEN  HIM 

Have  you  seen  our  Izaac  Walton, 
With  his  bamboo  posed  with  grace, 
And  his  casting-lines  and  flies  around  his  hat, 
But  the  quarters  to  buy  fish  with 
Kept  discreetly  out  of  sight, 
With  the  pennyroyal  to  keep  away  the  gnat? 

Have  you  seen  his  natty  creel,  too — 
A  square  hole  in  its  lid, 

Showing  sandwiches  and  milk  and  lemonade? 
But  his  flask  of  Four  Crown  whisky 
Kept  discreetly  out  of  sight — 
To  prevent  the  influenza,  should  he  wade? 

Have  you  seen  him  lug  his  fish  home, 
And  heard  him  spin  the  yarns 

'Bout  his  fighting  them,  and  pile  up  lie  on  lie? 
But  the  boy  who  sold  them  to  him 
Kept  discreetly  out  of  sight, 
While  he  posed  "a  holy  terror"  with  the  fly? 

Why,  of  course,  you've  often  seen  him, 
And  you've  been  there,  too,  yourself, 
And  you've  done  the  great  prevaricating  act; 
But  the  quarters  that  you've  squandered 
Kept  discreetly  out  of  sight, 
As  you've  passed  off  whooping  lies  for  solid  fact. 

— D.  G.  Smith. 


200  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


A  FISHER  ONCE  WAS  I 

What  glorious  scenes,  what  winsome  sounds, 

The  world  of  nature  doth  impart 
To  that  fond  rover  midst  her  wilds — 

Disciple  of  "the  gentle  art." 

He  knows  the  mountains,  knows  their  moods — 
The  waters  kissed  by  osier  wands ; 

And  forests  where  the  moose  bird  dreams 
Of  tidbits  tossed  by  angler's  hands. 

While  stretched  beside  the  campfire's  blaze, 

In  twilight's  dim  and  mystic  air, 
He  hears  the  river's  stately  song — 

The  thrush's  blended  hymn  and  pray'r. 

The  shores  of  tranquil,  lilied  lakes, 
Where  sable  loons  at  evening  call — 

The  night  winds'  anthem  through  the  pines — 
He  hears  and  sees,  and  loves  them  all. 

His  shelt'ring  tent  among  the  trees, 
With  light  canoe  upon  the  streams; 

The  nomad  Indian's  life  he  leads, 
While  romance  tinges  all  his  dreams. 

Such  music  sweet  of  wind  and  wave, 

Apollo's  lyre-strings  never  knew; 
Such  sunset  hues  as  he  beholds, 

The  hand  of  painter  never  drew. 


THE  OLD  HOME  HAUNTS  201 

For  aye  may  all  his  outings  tend 
Where  waters  laugh  and  croon  and  drowse; 

Where  spruce  and  hemlock  throw  their  shade, 
With  odors  from  their  balsam  boughs. 

And  when  before  the  pearly  gates, 

His  earthly  fishing  days  gone  by, 
His  honest  soul  should  prompt  the  speech: 

"Perhaps,  some  little,  harmless  lie" — 

St.  Peter '11  shake  his  golden  keys 

And  say  with  meaning  wink  so  sly: 
"Forbear,  my  son,  forbear,  pass  in, 

Pass  in.    A  fisher  once  was  I !" 

— Sam  Parker. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


THE  OLD  HOME  HAUNTS 

There's  a  sound  that  rings  in  my  ears  to-day, 

That  echoes  in  vague  refrain, 
The  ripple  of  water  o'er  smooth-washed  clay, 
Where  the  wall-eyed  pike  and  the  black  bass  play, 
That  makes  me  yearn,  in  a  quiet  way, 

For  my  old  fly-rod  again. 

Back  to  the  old  home  haunts  again, 
Back  where  the  clear  lake  lies: 

Back  through  the  woods 

Where  the  blackbird  broods, 
Back  to  my  rod  and  flies. 


202 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

I'm  longing  to  paddle  the  boat  to-day, 
Through  water-logged  grass  and  reeds: 

Where  the  musk-rat  swims,  and  the  cat-tails  sway; 

Where  the  air  is  cool,  and  the  mist  is  gray; 

Where  the  ripples  dance  in  the  same  old  way, 
Under  the  tangled  weeds. 

Back  on  the  old  oak  log  again, 
Back  by  the  crystal  brook; 

Back  to  the  bait, 

And  the  silent  wait, 
Back  to  my  line  and  hook. 

I  wish  I  could  wade  by  the  water's  edge, 

Where  the  fallen  leaves  drift  by; 
Just  to  see,  in  the  shadow  of  the  ledge, 
How  dark  forms  glide,  like  a  woodman's  wedge, 
Through  driftwood  piles  and  the  coarse  marsh  sedge, 

And  to  hear  the  bittern  cry. 

Back  where  the  tadpoles  shift  and  sink, 
Back  where  the  bull-frogs  sob; 

Back  just  to  float 

In  the  leaky  boat, 
Back  to  my  dripping  bob. 

Oh,  it's  just  like  this  on  each  misty  day, 

It's  always  the  same  old  pain 
That  struggles  and  pulls  in  the  same  old  way 
To  carry  me  off  for  a  little  stay 
By  the  water's  edge,  in  sticky  clay, 

To  fish  in  the  falling  rain. 


THE  ANGLER'S  AWAKENING          203 

Back  to  my  long  black  rubber  boots, 
Back  to  my  old  patched  coat; 

Back  to  my  rod 

And  the  breath  of  God — 
Home — and  my  leaky  boat! 

— Frederick  Colburn  Clarke. 


THE  ANGLER'S  AWAKENING 

Great  is  the  joy  when  the  summer  has  'wakened, 
Lifted  herself  from  the  ice  and  the  snow, 

Out  to  the  stream  to  go  hunting  the  sly  ones — 
Payment  in  full  for  the  days  of  our  woe; 

Out  where  the  waters  are  sounding  and  calling, 
And  there  is  peace  in  the  breezes  that  blow! 

Out  where  the  stream  is  a  pathway  of  silver — 
Flashing  its  smile  to  the  face  of  the  sun ; 

Out  where  the  day  is  a  harvest  of  gladness, 
Out  where  the  hour-sands  too  soon  are  run; 

Out  where  we  leave  all  the  aching  behind  us, 
Out  where  the  rest  and  the  comfort  is  won! 

There  we  shall  live  as  the  Maker  has  made  us, 
Strip  from  ourselves  all  the  scheming  and  guile; 

Throw  from  our  shoulders  the  unequal  burden, 
Pause  to  recover — and  think  for  a  while; 

Sit  by  the  ferns  by  the  musical  river — 
Gloom  and  despair  giving  way  to  a  smile! 


204  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

There  to  forget  all  the  hum  and  the  turmoil ; 

There  to  forget  all  the  clatter  and  rush — 
There  to  restore  all  the  courage  that's  left  us, 

There  to  arise  from  the  toil  and  the  crush; 
There  to  be  great  by  the  might  of  our  dreaming, 

Solitude  near  us — the  coolness,  the  hush! 

Over  the  woodway  and  down  to  the  streamside, 
Fishing  we  go  in  the  bright-early  morn— 

Now  is  the  heart  bravely  singing,  and  gayly, 
Gone  is  the  sorrow,  the  visage  forlorn ; 

There  through  the  trees  is  the  limpid  lane  shining, 
Over  the  air  is  the  harmony  borne! 

There  is  the  pool  by  the  low-drooping  alders; 

There  to  the  boulder  the  light  fly  is  cast- 
Now  has  the  speckled  one  risen  to  take  it, 

Now  is  the  battle  on,  cunning  and  fast ! 
See  how  he  fights  in  the  swirl  of  the  current— 

Now  the  net  lifts  him — the  worry  is  past. 

Home  then  at  even — the  sun  in  its  glory, 
Gilding  the  clouds  into  billows  of  flame; 

Sound  of  the  whip-poor-will  deep  in  the  coverts, 
Telling  the  world  all  his  musical  name; 

While  the  pines  sound  with  the  notes  of  the  vesper, 
This  shall  be  gain  over  Trouble  and  Fame! 

— Robert  Page  Lincoln. 

Permission  of  "The  American  Angler." 


FISHING  SONG  205 


FISHING  SONG 

Come,  boys,  get  down  your  dusty  poles, 

Your  reels  and  flies  and  lines; 
We're  off  to  where  the  Brule  rolls 

Among  the  northern  pines — 
To  where  the  sparkling  Brule  rolls 

Among  the  fragrant  pines. 

Before  our  tent  beside  the  stream 

We'll  sit  and  smoke  at  eve; 
The  nights  shall  pass  with  ne'er  a  dream 

The  days  with  naught  to  grieve — 
Clear  nights  whereon  the  pale  moon's  beam 

Shall  linger  loath  to  leave. 

The  fish?    Alas!  again  must  I 

Confess  I  know  them  not. 
Guides  named  them  all  when  I  was  by 

But  I  have  clean  forgot ; 
(Or  else  the  poteen  held  my  eye 

So  that  I  heard  them  not.) 

Enough  it  is  that  I  declare 

Earth  has  no  fairer  scene — 
No  joy  not  held  in  that  crisp  air 

Deep  in  the  wildwood  green, 
Where  gleams  the  Brule  debonair 

Her  vineclad  banks  between. 


206  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

So  come,  get  down  your  fishing  poles, 

Your  patent  reels  and  lines, 
And  we'll  go  where  the  Brule  rolls 

Among  the  northern  pines— 
To  where  the  sparkling  Brule  rolls 

Among  the  fragrant  pines. 

— Frank  Putnam. 

From  "Living  in  the  World,"  Rand,  McNally  &  Co. 

AN  APPEAL  FROM  OUR  FINNY  FRIENDS 

As  one  of  the  tribe,  I  speak  for  the  rest, 
And  this  is  the  message  we  send:— 

Just  play  with  us  fair  and  then  in  the  test, 
Let  the  cleverest  win  in  the  end. 

An  even  chance  should  be  ours,  that's  sure, 
So  don't  be  mean  with  your  snares, 

For  at  best  we're  fooled  by  your  tempting  lure, 
And  are  caught  so  oft  unawares. 

And  while  we're  but  fish,  we're  game  to  the  end, 
No  quarter  from  you  will  we  pray, 

So  be  a  good  sport  and  also  our  friend, 
And  use  but  one  hook  in  the  fray. 

— Charles  H.  Bracken. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 

ON  A  BANK  AS  I  SATE  A-FISHING 

This  day  dame  Nature  seem'd  in  love : 
The  lusty  sap  began  to  move ; 
Fresh  juice  did  stir  th'  embracing  vines, 
And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 


THE  FISHER'S  CALL  207 

The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well-dissembled  flie ; 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill. 

Already  were  the  eaves  possest 

With  the  swift  Pilgrim's  daubed  nest; 

The  groves  already  did  rejoice 

In  Philomel's  triumphing  voice, 

The  showers  were  short,  the  weather  mild, 

The  morning  fresh,  the  evening  smiled. 

Joan  takes  her  neat-rubb'd  pail,  and  now 
She  trips  to  milk  the  sand-red  cow, — 
Where,  for  some  sturdy  football  swain, 
Joan  strokes  a  syllabub  or  twain, 
The  fields  and  garden  were  beset 
With  tulip,  crocus,  violet; 
And  now,  though  late,  the  modest  rose 
Did  more  than  half  a  blush  disclose. 
Thus  all  looks  gay,  and  full  of  cheer, 
To  welcome  the  new-livery'd  year. 

— Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


THE  FISHER'S  CALL 

The  moor-cock  is  crowing  o'er  mountain  and  fell, 
And  the  sun  drinks  the  dew  from  the  blue  heather-bell ; 
Her  song  of  the  morning  the  lark  sings  on  high, 
And  hark,  'tis  the  milk-maid  a-carolling  by. 

Then  up,  fishers,  up!  to  the  waters  away! 

Where  the  bright  trout  is  leaping  in  search  of  his  prey. 


208  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

O  what  can  the  joys  of  the  angler  excel 

As  he  follows  the  stream  in  its  course  through  the  dell ! 

Where  ev'ry  wild  flower  is  blooming  in  pride, 

And  the  blackbird  sings  sweet,  with  his  mate  by  his  side. 

Then  up,  fishers,  up!  to  the  waters  away! 

Where  the  bright  trout  is  leaping  in  search  of  his 
prey. 

Tis  pleasant  to  walk  at  the  first  blush  of  morn, 
In  spring  when  the  blossom  is  white  on  the  thorn, 
By  the  clear  mountain  stream  that  rolls  sparkling  and 

free, 

O'er  crag  and  through  vale,  its  glad  course  to  the  sea. 
Then  up,  fishers,  up!  to  the  waters  away! 
Where  the  bright  trout  is  leaping  in  search  of  his 
prey. 

In  the  pools  deep  and  still,  where  the  yellow  trout  lie, 
Like  the  fall  of  a  rose-leaf  we'll  throw  the  light  fly; 
Where  the  waters  flow  gently,  or  rapidly  foam, 
We'll  load  well  our  creels  and  hie  merrily  home. 
Then  up,  fishers,  up!  to  the  waters  away! 
Where  the  bright  trout  is  leaping  in  search  of  his 
prey. 
—William  Andrew  Chatto  ("Stephen  Oliver"). 

YE  WARDERS  OF  THE  WATERS 

Ye  warders  of  the  waters ! 

Is  the  alder'd  stream-side  free? 
Hath  the  salmon  sped 
From  his  winter  bed 


YE  WARDERS  OF  THE  WATERS        209 

Adown  to  the  azure  sea  ? 

Rideth  afloat 

The  fisher's  boat 
Below  the  white-thorn  tree? 

Go  forth,  ye  anglers  jovial ! 
The  waters  are  open  wide; 

No  longer  we  ward 

From  vernal  sward 
The  glittering  salmon  glide; 

Free  at  your  will 

The  crystal  rill, 
And  tuneless  torrent-side. 

Ho !  warders  of  the  waters ! 
Is  the  yellow  trout  at  feed? 

And  the  March  flies  brown 

Are  they  sailing  down 
Where  current  and  zephyr  lead? 

See  you  abroad 

With  pliant  rod 
Some  gentle  brother  speed  ? 

Go  forth,  ye  anglers  jovial ! 
The  ring  of  the  trout  we  spy, 
And  the  south  winds  pour 
In  a  pleasant  shower 
The  merry  March-brown  fly ; 
With  vigorous  wand 
The  fisher  band 
Among  the  dark  pools  ply. 

-Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 

14 


210  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  FISHERMEN 

Hurrah !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor ! 

Run  up  the  sail  again! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

There  we'll  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain ; 
We'll  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain ! 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 
In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 

And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 
From  off  the  frozen  reels ; 


THE  ANGLER  211 


Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 
And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 

We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 
And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud ! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  His  hand! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  west- wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling; 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed ! 

—John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

THE  ANGLER 

Speak  not  to  him  of  days  that  mark 

The  conquest  of  the  air. 
He  has  no  wish  to  dwell  in  space, 

He  finds  the  world  so  fair. 
He  loves  the  field ;  he  loves  the  wood ; 
The  very  scent  of  earth  is  good. 

His  rod  and  line  are  rare. 


212 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

He  could  not  bear  to  live  apart 

From  gentle,  winding  stream 
Wherein  he  casts  his  baited  hook, 

And  then  sits  down  to  dream. 
No  quicker  thrill  can  touch  his  soul 
Than  that  which  darts  along  the  pole, 

At  sudden  rise  and  gleam. 

So  leave  him  to  his  good,  green  earth  * 

His  shady  woodland  nook. 
No  Music  of  the  Spheres  can  charm 

Like  that  of  babbling  brook. 
Go  soar  aloft  as  swallows  skim, 
If  you  desire,  but  as  for  him — 

Just  leave  him  with  his  hook! 

—Blanche  Elizabeth  Wade. 

From  "The  New  York  Sun." 

THE  UNATTAINABLE 

I  know  a  pool  where  the  river, 

Sunlit  and  still, 
Slips  by  a  bank  of  wild  roses 

Down  from  the  mill ; 
There  do  I  linger  when  summer  makes  glorious 

Valley  and  hill. 

Somewhere  the  song  of  a  skylark 

Melts  into  air, 
Butterflies  float  through  the  sunshine, 

June's  everywhere ; 
Nature  in  fact,  shows  an  amiable  jollity 

I  do  not  share. 


THE  UNATTAINABLE 213 

For  in  the  shade  of  the  alders, 

Scornful  of  flies, 
There  is  a  trout  that  no  cunning 

Coaxes  to  rise, 
Sly  as  Ulysses,  and  doubtful  as  Didymus, 

Mammoth  in  size. 

And  when  the  Mayfly  battalions 

Flutter  and  skim, 
When  all  the  others  are  filling 

Baskets  abrim, 
I  spend  the  cream  of  a  fisherman's  carnival 

Casting  at  him; 

Seeing  in  fancy  my  hackle 

Seized  with  a  flounce, 
Hearing  the  reel  racing  madly 

Under  his  pounce, 
Knowing  at  last  all  the  pounds  of  his  magnitude — 

(Eight  of  an  ounce !) 

But  of  my  drakes  and  my  sedges 

None  make  the  kill, 
None  tempt  him  up  from  his  fastness 

Under  the  mill, 
And,  for  I  saw  him  as  lately  as  Saturday, 

There  he  is  still. 

Thus  do  Life's  triumphs  elude  us, 
Yet  it  may  be 


214  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Some  afternoon,  when  the  keeper 

Goes  to  his  tea, 
That,  if  a  lob-worm  were  dropped  unofficially — 

Well,  we  shall  see. 

— Patrick  Chalmers. 

From  "Green  Days  and  Blue  Days,"  The  Norman,  Remington  Co. 


THE  FISHER'S  WELCOME 

We  twa  hae  fish'd  the  Kale  sae  clear, 

An'  streams  o'  mossy  Reed ; 
We've  try'd  the  Wansbeck  and  the  Wear, 

The  Teviot  an'  the  Tweed ; 
An'  we  will  try  them  ance  again, 

When  summer  suns  are  fine ; 
An'  we'll  thraw  the  flies  taegither  yet, 

For  the  days  o'  auld  lang  syne. 

'Tis  mony  years  sin'  first  we  sat 

On  Coquet's  bonny  braes, 
An'  mony  a  brither  fisher's  gane, 

An'  clad  in  his  last  claes. 
An'  we  maun  follow  wi'  the  lave, 

Grim  death  he  heuchs  us  a' ; 
But  we'll  hae  anither  fishing  bout 

Afore  we're  ta'en  awa'. 

For  we  are  hale  an'  hearty  baith, 

Tho'  frosty  are  our  pows, 
We  still  can  guide  our  fishing  graith, 

An'  climb  the  dykes  and  knowes; 


THE  FISHER'S  WELCOME  215 

We'll  mount  our  creels  and  grip  our  gads, 

An'  thraw  a  sweeping  line, 
An'  we'll  hae  a  splash  amang  the  lads, 

For  the  days  o'  auld  lang  syne. 

Tho'  Cheviot's  top  be  frosty  still, 

He's  green  below  the  knee, 
Sae  don  your  plaid  an'  tak  your  gad, 

An'  gang  awa'  wi'  me. 
Come  busk  your  flies,  my  auld  compeer, 

We're  fidgin'  a'  fu'  fain, 
We've  fish'd  the  Coquet  mony  a  year, 

An'  we'll  fish  her  ance  again. 

An'  hameward  when  we  toddle  back, 

An'  nicht  begins  to  fa', 
An'  ilka  chiel  maun  tell  his  crack, 

We'll  crack  aboon  them  a'. 
When  jugs  are  toom'd  and  coggens  wet, 

I'll  lay  my  loof  in  thine; 
We've  shown  we're  gude  at  water  yet, 

An'  we're  little  warse  at  wine. 

We'll  crack  how  mony  a  creel  we've  fill'd, 

How  mony  a  line  we've  flung, 
How  mony  a  ged  an'  saumon  *kill'd, 

In  days  when  we  were  young. 
We'll  gar  the  callants  a'  look  blue; 

An'  sing  anither  tune; 
They're  boasting,  aye,  o'  what  they'll  do, 

We'll  tell  them  what  we've  dune. 

— Thomas  Doubleday. 


216  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


THE  YELLOW  FINS  O*  YARROW 

The  yellow  fins  o'  Yarrow  dale ! 

I  kenna  whar  they've  gane  tae; 
Was  ever  troots  in  Border  vale 

Sae  comely  or  sae  dainty? 

They  had  baith  gowd  and  spanglit  rings, 

Wf  walth  o'  pearl  amang  them; 
An'  for  sweet  luve  o'  bonny  things, 

The  heart  was  laith  to  wrang  them. 

But  he  that  angles  Yarrow  ower 

(Maun  changes  ever  waken  ?) 
Frae  our  Lady's  Lock  to  Newark  Tower, 

Will  find  the  stream  forsaken. 

Forsaken  ilka  bank  an'  stane 

O*  a'  its  troots  o'  splendor; 
Auld  Yarrow's  left  sae  lorn  and  lane, 

Ane  scarcely  wad  hae  kenn'd  her. 

Waes  me !    The  ancient  yellow  fin 

I  marvel  whar  he's  gane  tae; 
Was  ever  troot  in  Forest  rin 

Sae  comely  or  sae  dainty ! 

—Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


FISHING  NOOKS 217 

FISHING  NOOKS 

"Men  will  grow  weary,"  said  the  Lord, 
"Of  working  for  their  bed  and  board. 
They'll  weary  of  the  money  chase 
And  want  to  find  a  resting  place 
Where  hum  of  wheel  is  never  heard 
And  no  one  speaks  an  angry  word, 
And  selfishness  and  greed  and  pride 
And  petty  motives  don't  abide. 
They'll  need  a  place  where  they  can  go 
To  wash  their  souls  as  white  as  snow. 
They  will  be  better  men  and  true 
If  they  can  play  a  day  or  two." 

The  Lord  then  made  the  brooks  to  flow 
And  fashioned  rivers  here  below, 
And  many  lakes ;  for  water  seems 
Best  suited  for  a  mortal's  dreams. 
He  placed  about  them  willow  trees 
To  catch  the  murmur  of  the  breeze, 
And  sent  the  birds  that  sing  the  best 
Among  the  foliage  to  nest. 
He  filled  each  pond  and  stream  and  lake 
With  fish  for  man  to  come  and  take ; 
Then  stretched  a  velvet  carpet  deep 
On  which  a  weary  soul  could  sleep. 

It  seemed  to  me  the  Good  Lord  knew 
That  man  would  want  something  to  do 
When  worn  and  wearied  with  the  stress 
Of  battling  hard  for  world  success. 


218 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

When  sick  at  heart  of  all  the  strife 
And  pettiness  of  daily  life, 
He  knew  he'd  need,  from  time  to  time, 
To  cleanse  himself  of  city  grime, 
And  he  would  want  some  place  to  be 
Where  hate  and  greed  he'd  never  see. 
And  so  on  lakes  and  streams  and  brooks 
The  Good  Lord  fashioned  fishing  hooks. 

—Edgar  A.  Guest. 

From  "Just  Folks."    Copyrighted  by  and  permission  from  Reilly  &  Lee  Co. 


FISH  IS  COIN'  TO  BITE 

When  the  shadders  thicken  evenin's, 

An'  the  fireflies  kinder  shine, 
An'  the  wind  is  softly  moanin' 

Through  the  hemlock  an'  the  pine; 
When  the  crickets  are  a-chirpin', 

An'  the  frogs' 11  croak  at  night, 
Then  you'd  best  be  gettin'  ready — 

For  the  fish  is  goin'  to  bite. 

When  it  comes  roun'  time  fer  seedin' 

An'  there's  breakin'  to  be  done, 
An'  you've  got  to  put  in  garden, 

An'  a  thousand  things  in  one, 
An'  you  feel  a  kinder  itchin' 

An'  you  can't  explain  it  quite, 
Then  you'd  best  be  gettin'  ready — 

For  the  fish  is  goin'  to  bite. 


THE  POMPANO  OF  FLORIDA  219 

When  the  days  are  gettin'  longer, 

An'  the  bees  are  mongst  the  flowers, 
An'  the  world  is  lookin'  fresher 

Watered  by  the  April  showers; 
When  the  lilacs  are  a-buddin' 

An'  the  crocus  cup  in  sight, 
Then  you'd  best  be  gettin'  ready — 

For  the  fish  is  goin'  to  bite. 

-Claude  Hillel 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


THE  POMPANO  OF  FLORIDA 
(Trachynotus  carolinus) 

The  jpompano  is  to  a  gourmand  worth  a  journey  to  the 
Gulf  Coast— S.  C.  Clarke  in  Fishes  of  the  Atlantic  Coast. 

Sweet  Southern  airs  and  flowery  blooms 
Of  the  magnolia's  rare  perfumes, 
The  breath  of  rose,  the  violet's  scent, 
In  one  commingled  sweetness  blent, 
Delight  me  as  I  muse  of  thee, 
Fair  Florida,  far  down  the  sea. 

Musing,  I  seem  to  tread  thy  glades, 
The  vistas  of  thy  wood-arcades, 
Where  golden  globes  of  oranges 
Enrich  perennial-flowering  trees; 
And  the  pineapple's  ruddy  cone 
Gleams  in  the  thorny  thicket's  zone. 


220 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

I  seem  to  track  the  rivulet's  course 
Far  up  its  tangled  journey's  source, 
To  follow  it  o'er  grassy  meads, 
Amid  the  jungles  and  the  reeds, 
To  meet  it  where  it  joins  its  tide 
To  spreading  bay  or  river  wide, 
And  take  the  grouper,  trout,  or  bass 
From  ripples  crystal-clear  as  glass. 

But  chief  the  triumph  of  my  line 
To  take  pompano  from  the  brine, 
The  richest  prize  the  angler  knows 
Where  ocean  rolls  or  river  flows. 
A  fish  with  frosted  silver  deck'd, 
With  blue,  resplendent  colors  fleck'd, 
Flavor 'd  more  richly  than  all  schools 
That  haunt  the  shallows  and  the  pools. 

A  bottom-fish,  its  sumptuous  fare 
Crustacea  and  the  mollusk  rare, 
Rich  food  that  makes  the  sheepshead  fish 
To  epicure  a  matchless  dish ! 
Salmon  of  sea  and  trout  of  brook, 
Fair  captive  of  the  angler's  hook, 
No  daintier  delicacies  boast 
Than  the  pompano  of  the  coast. 

— Isaac  McLellan. 


THE  BROOK  TROUT        221 

THE  BROOK  TROUT 

How  swift  and  strong  its  waters  glide — 
The  brook — a  clear,  resistless  tide, 
And  slowly  down  the  mountain  side 

The  angler  goes. 

The  soft  air  drifts  through  solemn  pines 
And  dreamily  the  sunlight  shines, 
And  past  the  alders,  rocks,  and  vines 

The  current  flows. 

Above  the  depths  that  now  conceal 
What  tempting  lures  may  yet  reveal 
An  instant  whirls  the  nimble  reel, 

Then  drops  the  fly, 
And  by  the  glancing  ripples  caught 
A  moment,  there  the  line  is  taut, 
And  then,  as  suddenly  as  thought, 

Goes  whirling  by. 

And  where  the  swift  brook  turning  trends, 
Just  as  the  broadening  ripple  ends, 
There  comes  a  tug,  a  thrill  that  sends 

Along  the  rod, 

A  message  from  the  slender  tip 
From  whence  the  liquid  diamonds  drip, 
That  violently  makes  it  dip 

And  downward  nod. 

And  then  it  bends  from  tip  to  .butt, 
While  through  the  pools  the  ripples  cut, 
And  close  and  closer  yet  is  shut, 
Then  upward  flies, 


222  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

As  drawn  from  out  his  pebbly  hold, 
Brightly  against  the  forest  mould, 
Vermilion,  silver,  black,  and  gold, 
The  brook  trout  lies. 

— Ernest  McGaffey. 


THE  FIRST  WORM 

This  morning  as  I  went  to  work 
(For  work  I  was  not  wishing), 

A  worm  crawled  briskly  out  and  said: 
"Come  on,  let's  go  a-nshing!" 

I  wonder  how  that  worm  knew  me, 
My  thoughts,  my  inmost  wishes, 

Which  ran,  not  slow  to  tasks,  but  swift 
To  brooks  and  little  fishes. 

Instead  of  toil  and  noisy  streets, 
Sad  hearts  and  anxious  feeling, 

There  came  a  haze  of  golden  dreams 
With  blessing  on  me  stealing. 

I  felt  the  warm,  rich  tide  of  spring 

Mount  in  me  with  elation; 
I  heard  the  call  of  earth  and  sky, 

The  red-gods'  invitation. 

I  saw  the  lights,  the  wimpled  gleams 

Of  amber  waters  flowing; 
I  smelted  the  fragrance  of  the  woods 

With  birch  and  spice-buds  blowing. 


THE  BONNY  TWEED  FOR  ME         223 

I  heard  the  wind's  low  symphonies, 

The  partridge  drum-call  rolling, 
In  every  hidden  copse  a  thrush 

His  silver  bell  was  tolling. 

Over  moor,  beside  the  singing  stream, 

Lost  boyhood  came  to  meeting, 
And  life  was  as  a  timeless  day 

That  ends  with  mother's  greeting. 

Once  more  I  built  my  midday  fire 

And  broiled  a  trouty  treasure, 
And  ate  and  drank  and  praised  the  Lord 

For  life  and  simple  pleasure. 

I've  had,  thanks  be,  a  happy  hour 

Of  dreams  and  idle  wishing, 
And  all  because  one  early  worm 

Said,  "Come,  let's  go  a-fishing." 

— Anonymous. 

Permission  of  "The  Independent  and  The  Weekly  Review." 


THE  BONNY  TWEED  FOR  ME! 

The  hunter's  e'e  grows  bright  as  the  fox  frae  covert 

steals, 

The  fowler  lo'es  the  gun,  wi*  the  pointer  at  his  heels, 
But  of  a'  the  sports  I  ken,  that  can  stir  the  heart  wi' 

glee, 
The  troutin'  stream,  the  fishin'  gad,  the  bonny  Tweed 

for  me. 


224  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Wi'  the  gowan  at  the  waterside,  the  primrose  on  the 

brae, 
When  sheets  o'  snawy  blossom  cleed  the  cherry  and  the 

slae, 
When  sun  and  wind  are  wooin'  baith,  the  leaflet  on  the 

tree; 
Then  the  troutin'  stream,  the  fishin'  gad,  the  bonny 

Tweed  for  me. 

When  the  fresh  green  sward  is  yieldin'  wi'  a  spring 

aneath  the  fit, 
And  swallows  thrang  on  eager  wing  out  ower  the  waters 

flit; 
While  the  joyous  laverocks,  toorin'  high,  shoot  out 

their  concert  free — 
Then  the  troutin'  stream,  the  fishin'  gad,  the  bonny 

Tweed  for  me. 

Cheer'd  wi*  the  honest  ploughman's  sang,  that  mak's 

his  wark  nae  toil — 
The  flocks  o'  sea-gulls  round  him  as  his  coulter  tears 

the  soil, 
When  the  craw-schule  meets  in  council  grave  upon  the 

furrowed  lea — 
Then  the  troutin'  stream,  the  fishin'  gad,  the  bonny 

Tweed  for  me. 

The  modest  wagtail  joukin  past,  wi'  saft  and  buoyant 

flight, 
And  gurglin'  streams  are  glancin'   by,  pure  as  the 

crystal  bright, 


THE  BONNY  TWEED  FOR  ME         225 

When  fish  rise  thick  and  threefauld  as  the  drake  or 

woodcock  flee — 
Then  the  troutin'  stream,  the  fishin'  gad,  the  bonny 

Tweed  for  me. 

I  like  the  merry  spring,  wi'  the  bluid  in  nature's  veins, 
The  dancin'  streamlet's  music,  as  it  trinkles  through 

the  stanes, 
The  silver  white  upon  the  hook,  my  light  gad  bending 

free — 
Wha  wadna  visit  bonny  Tweed  and  share  sic  sport 

wi'  me? 

While  there!  time  wings  wi'  speed  o'  thought,  the  day 

flees  past  sae  sune, 
That  wha  wad  dream  o'  weariness  till  a   the  sport  is 

dune? 

We  hanker  till  the  latest  blink  is  shed  frae  gloamin's  e'e, 
Laith,  laith  to  quit  the  troutin'  stream,  the  fishin'  gad, 

and  flee!  —W.  A.  Foster. 

THE  STRIPED  BASS 

(Roccus  Lineatus) 

The  taking  of  the  striked  bass  is  what  the  salt-water 
fisherman  claims  the  right  of  terming  the  high-water  mark 
of  all  angling. — Van  Dorne  in.  The  Fishes  of  the  East 
Atlantic  Coast. 

There  in  great  deeps  of  ocean  floods 
Where  narrow,  rock-strewn  channels  sweep, 
The  strip'd  bass  hold  their  paradise 
Unrivall'd  roamers  of  the  deep. 

15 


226  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

There  the  surf-fisher  casts  the  bait, 
There  the  scaled  warrior  meets  his  fate, 
Where  matchless  skill  and  tackle  fine 
Conquer  those  heroes  of  the  brine. 
Stong  be  the  line  and  firm  the  hand 
To  drag  such  champion  to  the  strand. 

Pois'd  on  the  rock's  extremest  verge 
The  angler  like  a  sentry  shows, 
Swings  the  lithe  rod  and  whirls  the  bait 
Seaward  where  frothy  billow  flows; 
Then  comes  the  strike — the  splendid  fish, 
Full  of  the  rush  and  dash  of  waves, 
His  muscles  trained  by  many  a  shock 
And  battle  in  deep  ocean-caves, 
Makes  fiercer  fight  while  life  remain 
Than  bravest  ranger  of  the  main. 

— Isaac  McLellan. 


THE  ANGLER'S  WISH 

I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be : 
These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me, 
To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 
I  with  my  angle  would  rejoice, 
Sit  here  and  see  the  turtle  dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love: 

Or,  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty:  please  my  mind, 


WORM-FISHING 227 

To  see  sweet  dewdrops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And,  then,  wash'd  off  by  April  showers : 
Here,  hear  my  Kenna  sing  a  song, 
There  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young, 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest : 

Here  give  my  weary  spirits  rest, 

And  raise  my  low-pitch'd  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love: 
Thus,  free  from  lawsuits  and  the  noise 
Of  princes'  courts,  I  would  rejoice: — 

Or — with  my  Bryan,  and  a  book — 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  Brook; 

There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat; 

There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 

There  bid  good  morning  to  next  day; 

There  meditate  my  time  away ; 
And  angle  on,  and  beg  to  have 
A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

-Izaak  Walton  ("John  ChalkhilT). 

WORM-FISHING 

Now  as  an  angler  melancholy  standing 
Upon  a  greene  banke  yielding  room  for  landing, 
A  wriggling  yellow  worme  thrust  on  his  hooke, 
Now  in  the  midst  he  throws,  then  in  a  nooke: 
Here  pulls  his  line,  there  throws  it  in  again, 
Mending  his  croke  and  baite,  but  all  in  vaine, 
He  long  stands  viewing  of  the  curling  streame ; 
At  last  a  hungry  pike,  or  well-growne  breame 


228  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Snatch  at  the  worme,  and  hasting  fast  away, 
He,  knowing  it  a  fish  of  stubborn  sway, 
Pulls  up  his  rod,  but  soft  (as  having  skill), 
Wherewith  the  hook  fast  holds  the  fishe's  gill. 
Then  all  his  line  he  freely  yieldeth  him, 
Whilst  furiously  all  up  and  downe  doth  swimme 
Th'  insnared  fish,  here  on  the  toppe  doth  scud, 
There  underneath  the  bankes ;  then  in  the  mud ; 
And  with  his  frantic  fits  so  scares  the  shoal, 
That  each  one  takes  his  hyde  or  starting  hole : 
By  this  the  pike,  cleane  wearied,  underneath 
A  willow  lyes,  and  pants  (if  fishes  breathe) ; 
Wherewith  the  angler  gently  pulls  him  to  him, 
And,  lest  his  haste  might  happen  to  undoe  him, 
Layes  downe  his  rod,  then  takes  his  line  in  hand, 
And  by  degrees  getting  the  fish  to  land, 
Walkes  to  another  poole:  at  length  is  winner 
Of  such  a  dish  as  serves  him  for  his  dinner. 

— William  Browne. 

From  "Britannia's  Pastorals,"  i.  5. 


THE  BONNIE  TWEED 

Let  ither  anglers  chuse  their  ain, 

An'  ither  waters  tak'  the  lead; 
O'  Hielan'  streams  we  covet  nane, 

But  gie  to  us  the  bonnie  Tweed ! 
And  gie  to  us  the  cheerfu'  burn 

That  steals  into  its  valleys  fair — 
The  streamlets  that  at  ilka  turn 

Sae  saftly  meet  an'  mingle  there. 


THE  BONNIE  TWEED 229 

The  lanesome  Talla  and  the  Lyne, 

An'  Manor  wi'  its  mountain  rills, 
An'  Etterick,  whose  waters  twine 

Wi'  Yarrow  frae  the  forest  hills ; 
An'  Gala,  too,  an'  Teviot  bright, 

An'  mony  a  stream  o'  playfu'  speed ; 
Their  kindred  valleys  a'  unite 

Amang  the  braes  o'  bonnie  Tweed. 

There's  no  a  hole  abune  the  Crook, 

Nor  stane  nor  gentle  swirl  aneath, 
Nor  drumlie  rill  nor  faery  brook, 

That  daunders  thro'  the  flowery  heath, 
But  ye  may  fin'  a  subtle  troot, 

A'  gleamin'  ower  wi'  starn  an'  bead, 
An'  mony  a  sawmon  sooms  about 

Below  the  bields  o'  bonnie  Tweed. 

Frae  Holylee  to  Clovenford, 

A  chancier  bit  ye  canna  hae; 
So  gin  ye  tak'  an  angler's  word, 

Ye'd  through  the  whins  an'  ower  the  brae, 
An'  work  awa'  wi'  cunnin'  hand 

Yer  birzy  hackles,  black  and  reid ; 
The  saft  sough  o'  a  slender  wand 

Is  meetest  music  for  the  Tweed ! 

Oh  the  Tweed!  the  bonnie  Tweed! 

O'  rivers  it's  the  best; 
Angle  here,  or  angle  there,   . 
Troots  are  soomin'  ilka  where, 

Angle  east  or  west. 

— Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


230  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  TROUT 

Curved  like  an  Indian  bow, 

Bow  and  arrow  in  one, 
Spotted  with  crimson,  with  gold  aglow, 

And  bright  as  a  summer  sun, 
With  fins  like  a  lady's  fan, 

Yet  strong  as  a  canvas  sail, 
Cleaving  the  stream  as  a  cutter  can 

The  sea  in  a  Biscay  gale. 

Like  a  boat  to  an  anchor  fast, 

Thou'rt  pois'd  by  a  power  within, 
Yet  swift  as  lightning  thou  flashest  past, 

By  a  flap  of  thy  potent  fin, 
If  my  rod  shall  catch  thine  eye 

Or  my  cast  shall  show  its  sheen: 
A  water-fox  in  thy  subtlety; 

Thy  sight  as  an  eagle's  keen. 

Thou  lovest  the  crystal  streams 

Where  the  flowering  cresses  blow, 
Or  the  freshets  dancing  in  sunny  gleams, 

O'er  gravelly  pebbles  flow; 
And  even  in  lazier  hours, 

Thou  scornest  an  earthly  screen, 
But  couchest  beneath  the  bank's  wild  flowers, 

Or  the  stream-weeds,  waving  green. 

How  I  love  to  see  thee  lie 

In  the  green,  clear  watery  lane, 

In  wait  for  the  dainty,  floating  fly 
Thou  hopest  so  soon  to  gain! 


THE  TROUT  231 


I  would  that  it  might  be  mine, 

But  how  hard  to  make  it  sail 
Adown  in  that  straight,  unwavering  line 

That  shall  make  deceit  prevail ! 

How  hard  to  suit  thy  whim, 

So  varying  with  the  hour, 
Fancying  this  when  the  day  is  dim, 

And  that  in  shine  or  shower ! 
If  "out  of  season"  my  fly, 

Thou  daintiest  epicure, 
Tho'  plied  with  skill,  thy  critic  eye 

Will  scornfully  abjure. 

A  cunning  like  thine  I  need 

When  I  seek  to  make  thee  mine; 
I  must  overmatch  thee  in  greed 

In  order  to  conquer  thine : 
I  must  study  and  watch  thy  ways 

As  thou  dost  mine,  with  zeal, 
Thou  valiant  foe — I  yield  thee  praise, 

Foe  worthy  of  my  steel. 

I  strike,  and  the  barb  is  fast! 

The  battle  has  now  begun ! 
We  wrestle  together  at  last, 

But  the  battle  is  not  yet  won ! 
No  lover  that  conquers  the  fair 

Who  long  has  seemed  cold  and  coy, 
Is  prouder  than  I  when  I  draw  with  a  hair 

Thy  form  to  my  feet  with  joy! 

— Cotswold  hys. 


232  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


THE  BALLADE  OF  THE  BASS 

When  the  dewdrops  bright  in  the  dawning  gleam, 
And  the  dimpling  waters  in  beauty  shine; 

When  the  breathings  of  morn  with  odors  teem, 
With  my  rod  and  reel  and  a  silken  line, 
And  a  feathered  hook  of  quaint  design, 

I  stand  on  the  bank  in  the  dewy  grass, 
At  the  foot  of  a  giant  Norway  pine 

And  cast  the  fly  for  the  gamy  bass. 


When  smooth  as  a  mirror  are  lake  and  stream, 
And  the  shady  pools  hold  the  quiet  kine, 

With  the  lilies  afloat  in  the  noontide  dream, 
I  lay  down  the  rod  and  the  reel  and  line 
On  the  shelving  shore,  and  grandly  dine 

In  the  sylvan  shades  that  far  outclass 
The  dwellings  of  man;  then  lie  supine, 

And  muse  on  the  fly  and  the  gamy  bass. 


When  the  setting  sun,  with  his  crimson  beam, 

Transmutes  the  waters  to  ruby  wine; 
Again  I  return  to  the  glowing  theme — 

The  glory  of  rod  and  reel  and  line; 

And  there  in  the  hour  of  day's  decline, 
As  the  exquisite  moments  swiftly  pass, 

With  a  joy  that  no  language  can  define, 
I  cast  the  fly  for  the  gamy  bass. 


ANGLING  REVERIES  233 

L Envoi 

No  joy,  dear  fellow,  can  e'er  be  thine, 
Like  the  curving  rod  and  the  whistling  line; 
Then  let  us  pledge  in  a  brimming  glass 
The  far-cast  fly  and  the  gamy  bass. 

— Anonymous. 

ANGLING  REVERIES 

When  the  trees  get  kinder  yellar, 

And  the  air  grows  kinder  cool, 
And  the  trout  get  kinder  frisky, 

Down  in  yonder  shady  pool, 
You  can  be  darn  sure  it's  Autumn, 

And  the  fishin'  laws  forbid 
Your  anglin'  any  further, 

When  they  clamp  the  legal  lid. 
Yup;  your  fishin'  days  are  over, 

And  you  might  as  well  decide 
To  put  away  your  tackle, 

And  by  the  law  abide. 
Ah,  yes,  my  brother  Walton, 

I  will  do  as  you  advise, 
As  for  putting  'way  the  tackle, 

I  shall  sure  do  otherwise. 
For  the  rod  that's  done  good  service 

The  attic  is  too  base. 
It  is  worthy  of  more  honor, 

And  shall  have  the  chimney-place. 
Ah,  yes,  my  brother  fisherman, 

You  surely  are  discreet, 


234  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

For  at  that  hearth,  on  wintry  nights, 

'Neath  rods  we'll  take  our  seat. 
The  snow  may  swirl  around  the  place, 

May  whiten  all  the  ground ; 
But  it  won't  disturb  our  reveries. 

We'll  find  music  in  the  sound. 
Aye,  my  brother  Izaak,  boy, 

We'll  fondle  both  the  rods, 
And  talk  of  summer  outings 

That  were  envied  of  the  Gods. 
With  line,  the  leader  and  the  fly, 

That  caught  the  biggest  fish, 
For  one  sweet  vision  of  that  fight 

Will  be  our  only  wish. 
And  when  age  marks  our  locks  with  white, 

And  feeble  we  become, 
Then  'round  the  hearth,  we'll  gather  'round, 

'Till  Father  Time  doth  come. 

— C.  N.  Ward. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


HO,  FOR  THE  KANKAKEE! 

Ho,  for  the  marshes,  green  with  Spring, 

Where  the  bitterns  croak  and  the  plovers  pipe, 
Where  the  gaunt  old  heron  spreads  his  wing, 

Above  the  haunt  of  quail  and  snipe ; 
For  my  gun  is  clean  and  my  rod's  in  trim, 

And  the  old  wild  longing  is  roused  in  me ; 
Ho,  for  the  bass-pools  cool  and  dim ! 

Ho,  for  the  swamps  of  the  Kankakee ! 


THE  CLAM  MAN 235 

A  hut  by  the  river,  a  light  canoe, 

My  red  and  my  gun  and  a  sennight  fair, 
A  wind  from  the  South  and  the  wild  fowls  due, 

Be  mine.    All's  well.    Come  never  a  care. 
A  strain  of  the  savage  fires  my  blood, 

And  the  zest  of  freedom  is  keen  in  me ; 
Ho,  for  the  marsh  and  the  piled  flood ! 

Ho,  for  the  sloughs  of  the  Kankakee ! 

— Maurice  Thompson. 

From    "Poems."     By  permission  of    and  arrangement  with   Houghton 
Mifflin  Company,  authorized  publishers. 

THE  CLAM  MAN 

Across  the  white-capped  reach  of  bay, 
His  battered  vessel  slaps  and  slams, 

Though  calm  or  stormy  be  the  day 
He  clams. 

The  littered  deck  beneath  him  rolls, 
The  salt  gale  cuts  him  like  a  knife, 

Spray  drenched  he  sails  the  wind-lashed  shoals 
Of  life. 

For  him  love  is  a  tuneless  lay; 

Ambition  flaunts  no  lure  to  foil ; 
Night  is  a  soundless  sleep,  and  day 

Is  toil. 

Wealth  never  claimed  him,  fear  ne'er  knew 
The  thrill  to  wake  him  from  his  way; 

Courage  alone  is  his,  to  do 
To-day. 


236  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Sometimes  when  black  winds  sweep  the  night 
He  hears  across  the  wrack  of  years 

Dead  voices,  and  his  eyes  grow  bright 
With  tears. 

As  faithful,  steadfast  o'er  the  bay 
His  battered  vessel  slaps  and  slams, 

So  he  will  face  his  God — To-day 
He  clams. 

— Percy  M.  Gushing. 

Permission  of  "Outing  Magazine." 


WALTON'S  "COMPLEAT  ANGLER" 

What,  not  a  word  for  thee,  O  little  tome? 
Brown-jerkined,  friendly-faced — of  all  my  books 
The  one  that  wears  the  quaintest,  kindliest  looks — 
Seems  most  completely,  cosily  at  home, 
Amongst  its  fellows.     Ah!  if  thou  couldst  tell 
Thy  story — how,  in  sixteen  fifty-three, 
Good  Master  Marriot,  standing  at  his  door, 
Saw  anglers  hurrying — fifty — nay,  threescore, 
To  buy  thee,  ere  noon  pealed  from  Dunstan's  bell : — 
And  how  he  stared  and  .  .  .  shook  his  sides  with  glee. 
One  story,  this,  which  fact  or  fiction  weaves. 
Meanwhile,  adorn  my  shelf,  beloved  of  all — 
Old  book!  with  lavender  between  thy  leaves, 
And  twenty  ballads  round  thee  on  the  wall. 

— Thomas  Westwood. 


CHANNEL  BASS  FISHING  237 


CHANNEL  BASS  FISHING 

i 
Bass  fishing  is  mighty  uncertain  sport, 

For  the  game  is  shy  and  capricious, 
Quite  likely  to  try  the  experienced  hand 

And  weary  the  more  ambitious: 
But  when  the  mysterious  conditions  are  fit 

And  the  fish  all  eager  to  bite, 
It  will  fill  with  rapture  the  patient  soul 

And  thaw  the  ice  of  an  anchorite. 

One  pins  his  faith  on  the  waxing  moon, 

While  another  prefers  the  waning ; 
But  the  scorner  of  signs,  in  the  dark  of  the  moon 

Goes  angling  without  complaining: 
Some  look  for  success  in  the  falling  tide 

While  others  prefer  the  rising, 
But  the  hopeful  soul  angles  every  tide 

With  indifference  most  surprising. 

The  novice  yearns  for  a  speedy  strike, 

Which  failing  he  speaks  of  the  "Sin  Oh!" 
And  quickly  relapsing  from  high  emprise 

Impatiently  goes  for  the  minnow: 
But  loving  the  shock  and  the  song  of  the  reel 

And  despising  both  minnow  and  flounder, 
I  will  cheerfully  angle  for  days,  aye  for  weeks, 

In  the  quest  of  a  hundred  pounder. 

— William  E.  Simmons. 

Permission  of  "The  American  Angler." 


238  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

MICHIGAN  AGAIN 

When  Spring  has  come 

The  thing  has  come 
That's  sure  to  come  to  me : 

The  call  of  Spring 

That's  all  of  Spring — 
Spring  fever,  don't  you  see? 

In  weary  toil 

In  dreary  toil, 
It  whispers  now  and  then, 

"Awake!  Away! 

Come  break  away 
To  Michigan  again!" 

The  care  of  life, 

The  wear  of  life, 
Lie  heavy  on  the  heart; 

But  yonder  now 

They  wander  now 
In  fairyland  apart. 

For  over  there 

The  clover  there 
Will  deck  the  ways  of  men — 

And  then  I  long, 

Again  I  long, 
For  Michigan  again. 

The  cherry  tree, 
The  fairy  tree, 
Will  soon  be  all  a-blush; 


THE  SEA-TROUT  GREY  239 

The  winging  bird, 

The  singing  bird, 
Will  warble  in  the  hush. 

The  flashing  trout, 

The  splashing  trout, 
Is  waiting  in  the  fen — 

I  wish  again 

To  fish  again 
In  Michigan  again! 

— Douglas  Malloch. 

THE  SEA-TROUT  GREY 

The  sea-trout  grey 

Are  now  at  play, 
The  salmon  is  up,  hurra !  hurra ! 

For  the  streamlets  brown 

Are  dancing  down ; 
So  quicken  the  cup,  hurra !  hurra ! 

The  cloud-cap  still 

Is  on  the  hill, 
And  the  showers  fall  fast,  hurra!  hurra! 

But  sun  and  breeze 

Will  scatter  these, 
So  drink  while  they  last,  hurra !  hurra ! 

We'll  start  at  dawn, 

O'er  lea  and  lawn, 
Through  thicket  and  thorn,  hurra !  hurra ! 

On  merriest  limb 

With  rods  in  trim, 
Come,  drink  a  sweet  morn,  hurra !  hurra ! 

— Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


240  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  BLUEFISH 
(Pomatomus  Saltatrix) 

It  is  a  brave,  a  royal  sport, 

Trolling  for  bluefish  o'er  the  seas; 
Fair  skies  and  soaring  gulls  above, 

A  steady  blowing  breeze; 
A  shapely  yacht  whose  foaming  prow 

The  billowy  plain  divides, 
That  like  a  gallant  courser  speeds 

Far,  free  o'er  ocean  tides. 

First  from  West  India  seas  they  came, 

Haunting  the  Cuban  coast, 
Cruel  as  Spanish  buccaneers, 

A  fierce,  rapacious  host. 
But  now  by  Northern  seaboard  shores 

Their  murderous  way  they  take, 
From  Mexico  Gulf  to  Labrador, 

Wherever  billows  break. 
The  weaker  tenants  of  the  main 
Flee  from  their  rage  in  vain, 
The  vast  menhaden  multitudes 

They  massacre  o'er  the  flood ; 
With  lashing  tail,  with  snapping  teeth 

They  stain  the  tides  with  blood. 

Rakish  are  they,  like  pirate  craft, 

All  matchless  to  assail, 
With  graceful,  shapely,  rounded  sides 

And  the  sharped,  forked  tail; 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  RUNNING  REEL    241 

And  when  the  angler's  hook  is  fixed 
They  fight,  they  struggling  bleed, 

Now  leaping  high,  now  plunging  deep, 
Darting  with  lightning  speed. 

And  yet  these  sea  marauders, 

These  tyrants  of  the  main, 
By  fiercer,  mightier  ruffians 

Are  hunted,  conquered,  slain ; 
The  tumbling  porpoise  hunts  them, 

Dorado  fierce  pursues, 
And  when  the  shark  assaileth, 

Blood-stains  the  waves  suffuse. 

—Isaac  McLellan. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  RUNNING  REEL 

A  sudden  splash — 

A  silvery  flash — 

A  jerk,  a  turn,  and  a  forward  dash, 

To  the  song  of  the  running  reel ! 

When  the  gentle  breezes  of  morning 
Roll  the  mists  of  the  night  away, 
You  slowly  float  in  your  drifting  boat, 
Where  the  lush  pond-lilies  sway: 
To  troll  your  glistening  minnow 
Where  the  willows  shadow  the  brook: 
To  feel  the  thrill  of  the  morning  chill, 
And  the  lure  of  the  rod  and  hook. 
To  make  your  cast  in  the  riffles, 
Where  the  water  each  boulder  spurns: 

16 


242 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

To  follow  the  gleam  in  the  silvery  stream, 

As  your  minnow  wriggles  and  turns. 

Then  the  lightning  lunge  of  a  hungry  bass, 

As  he  darts  for  his  moving  prey : 

To  hear  the  purr — then  the  singing  whirr, 

As  the  reel  plays  your  strike  away. 

The  red  blood  pounds  through  every  vein 

And  each  muscle  tenses  to  steel : 

Such  glorious  strife  is  the  wine  of  life, 

To  the  song  of  the  running  reel ! 

— Francis  Aiken. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 

ON  THE  HOOK 

The  cork  goes  under  half  a  mile; 
You  feel  the  sag  and  jerk 
Along  your  rod,  and  then  and  there, 
My  boy,  you  set  to  work. 
He's  on  your  hook,  no  doubt  of  that ; 
He  tugs  and  yanks — it's  grand; 
But  ah,  a  fish  is  never  caught 
Until  he's  pulled  to  land. 

The  scheme,  my  man,  is  deuced  good; 
It  should  your  fortune  make; 
And  then  the  chap  with  dough  admits 
It's  big  and  ought  to  take. 
He's  swallowed  hook,  line,  sinker,  all ; 
But  oh,  you  must  command 
Skill,  will,  and  patience,  strong  and  long, 
If  he's  brought  safe  to  land. 


JUST  A  CHANCE— THAT'S  ALL         243 

The  fellow's  handsome,  brave,  and  rich, 
With  good  connections  too, 
And  taste  and  manners — yes,  my  girl, 
He'll  something  more  than  do. 
He's  on  the  hook ;  those  wiles  of  yours 
He  couldn't  quite  withstand; 
But  getting  him  to  land's  the  game, 
Just  getting  him  to  land. 

— St.  Clair  Adams. 


JUST  A  CHANCE— THAT'S  ALL 

Some  sing  the  praise  of  the  sweet,  shy  trout 

And  some  of  the  bold,  bad  bass; 
And  some  of  the  salmon  that  leaps  for  the  fly, 
And  some  of  the  tarpon  that  dazzles  the  eye 
Or  yet  to  the  ouananiche  pass. 


I  sing  the  praise  of  the  whole  fish  tribe, 

The  cast,  the  lure,  and  the  strike, 
Any  kind  that  will  chase  my  dull  cares  away 
And  give  an  excuse  to  play  hookey  to-day 

Is  the  kind  of  fishing  I  like. 

— Anonymous. 


244  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

A  LAY  OF  THE  LEA 

I'm  an  old  man  now, 

Stiff  limb  and  frosty  pow, 

But  stooping  o'er  my  flickering  fire,   in  the  winter 
weather, 

I  behold  a  vision 

Of  a  time  elysian, 
And  I  cast  my  crutch  away,  and  I  snap  my  tether! 

Up  i'  the  early  morning, 

Sleepy  pleasures  scorning, 
Rod  in  hand  and  creel  on  back,  I'm  away,  away! 

Not  a  care  to  vex  me — 

Not  a  fear  perplex  me — 
Blithe  as  any  bird  that  pipes  in  the  merry  May. 

Oh,  the  Enfield  meadows, 

Dappled  with  soft  shadows! 
Oh,  the  leafy  Enfield  lanes,  odorous  May  blossoms! 

Oh,  the  lapping  river, 

Lea,  beloved  for  ever, 
With  the  rosy  morning  light  mirrored  on  its  bosom. 

Out  come  reel  and  tackle — 
Out  come  midge  and  hackle — 

Length  of  gut  like  gossamer,  on  the  south  wind  stream- 
ing— 

And  brace  of  palmers  fine, 
As  ever  decked  a  line, 

Dubbed  with  herl,  and  ribbed  with  gold,  in  the  sun- 
light gleaming. 


A  LAY  OF  THE  LEA  .     245 

Bobbing  'neath  the  bushes, 

Crouched  among  the  rushes, 

On  the  rights  of  Crown  and  State,  I'm,  alas!  encroach- 
ing— 

What  of  that  ?    I  know 

My  creel  will  soon  o'erflow, 
If  a  certain  Cerberus  do  not  spoil  my  poaching. 

As  I  throw  my  flies, 

Fish  on  fish  doth  rise, 
Roach  and  dace  by  dozens,  on  the  bank  they  flounder. 

Presently  a  splash, 

And  a  furious  dash, 
Lo!  a  logger-headed  chub,  and  a  fat  two-pounder! 

Shade  of  Izaak,  say, 

Did  you  not  one  day, 
Fish  for  logger-headed  chub,  by  this  very  weir? 

'Neath  these  very  trees, 

Down  these  shady  leas, 
Where's  the  nightingale  that  ought  to  be  singing  here? 

Now,  in  noontide  heat, 

Here  I  take  my  seat; 
Izaak's  book  beguiles  the  time — of  Izaak's  book  I  say, 

Never  dearer  page 

Gladdened  youth  or  age, 
Never  sweeter  soul  than  his  blessed  the  merry  May. 

For  the  while  I  read, 
'Tis  as  if  indeed, 

Peace  and  joy  and  gentle  thoughts  from  each  line  were 
welling; 


246  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

As  if  earth  and  sky 
Took  a  tenderer  dye, 
And  as  if  within  my  heart  fifty  larks  were  trilling. 

Oh,  the  pleasant  roaming 

Homeward  through  the  gloaming! 
Oh,  the  heavy  creel,  alack!    Oh,  the  joyful  greeting! 

Oh,  the  jokes  and  laughter, 

And  the  sound  sleep  after, 
And  the  happy,  happy  dreams,  all  the  sport  repeating ! 

I'm  an  old  man  now, 
Stiff  limb  and  frosty  pow, 

But  stooping  o'er  my  flickering  fire,   in  the  winter 
weather, 

Oft  I  see  this  vision 
Of  a  time  elysian — 

And  I  cast  my  crutch  away,  and  escape  my  tether! 

— Thomas  Westwood. 


THE  TAKING  OF  THE  SALMON 

A  birr!  a  whirr!  a  salmon's  on, 

A  goodly  fish !  a  thumper ! 
Bring  up,  bring  up  the  ready  gaff, 
And  if  we  land  him  we  shall  quaff 
Another  glorious  bumper! 
Hark !  'tis  the  music  of  the  reel, 

The  strong,  the  quick,  the  steady ; 
The  line  darts  from  the  active  wheel, 
Have  all  things  right  and  ready. 


THE  TAKING  OF  THE  SALMON        247 

A  birr!  a  whirr!  the  salmon's  out 

Far  on  the  rushing  river; 
Onward  he  holds  with  sudden  leap, 
Or  plunges  through  the  whirlpool  deep, 
A  desperate  endeavor ! 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel ! 

The  fitful  and  the  grating; 
It  pants  along  the  breathless  wheel, 
Now  hurried — now  abating. 

A  birr!  a  whirr!  the  salmon's  off! — 

No,  no,  we  still  have  got  him ; 
The  wily  fish  has  sullen  grown, 
And,  like  a  bright  embedded  stone, 
Lies  gleaming  at  the  bottom. 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel ! 

Tis  hushed,  it  hath  forsaken; 
With  care  we'll  guard  the  slumbering  wheel, 
Until  its  notes  rewaken. 

A  birr!  a  whirr!  the  salmon's  up, 

Give  line,  give  line  and  measure; 
But  now  he  turns !  keep  down  ahead, 
And  lead  him  as  a  child  is  led, 
And  land  him  at  your  leisure. 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel! 
Tis  welcome,  it  is  glorious; 
It  wanders  round  the  winding  wheel, 
Returning  and  victorious. 


248  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

A  birr!  a  whirr!  the  salmon's  in, 

Upon  the  bank  extended; 
The  princely  fish  lies  gasping  slow, 
His  brilliant  colors  come  and  go, 
All  beautifully  blended. 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel ! 

It  murmurs  and  it  closes; 
Silence  falls  on  the  conquering  wheel, 
Its  wearied  line  reposes. 

No  birr !  no  whirr !  the  salmon's  ours, 

The  noble  fish — the  thumper: 
Strike  through  his  gill  the  ready  gaff, 
And  bending  homewards,  we  shall  quaff 
Another  glorious  bumper! 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel ! 

We  listen  with  devotion; 
There's  something  in  that  circling  wheel 
That  wakes  the  heart's  emotion. 

— Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 

ANGLING 

In  genial  spring,  beneath  the  quivering  shade, 
When  cooling  vapors  breathe  along  the  mead, 
The  patient  fisher  takes  his  silent  stand, 
Intent,  his  angle  trembling  in  his  hand: 
With  looks  unmov'd,  he  hopes  the  scaly  breed, 
And  eyes  the  dancing  cork  and  bending  reed. 
Our  plenteous  streams  a  various  race  supply, 
The  bright-eyed  perch  with  fins  of  Tyrian  dye, 


THAT  TROUT  249 


The  silver  eel,  in  shining  volumes  roll'd, 
The  yellow  carp,  in  scales  bedropp'd  with  gold, 
Swift  trouts,  diversified  with  crimson  stains, 
And  pikes,  the  tyrants  of  the  watery  plains. 

— Alexander  Pope. 

From  "Windsor  Forest." 

THAT  TROUT 

I've  watched  that  trout  for  days  and  days, 
I've  tried  him  with  all  sorts  of  tackle; 

With  flies  got  up  in  various  ways 
Red,  blue,  green,  gray  and  silver-hackle. 

Sometimes  I've  had  a  vicious  bite, 
And  as  the  silk  was  tautly  running, 

Have  been  convinced  I  had  him  quite; 
But  't  wasn't  him — he  was  too  cunning. 

I've  tried  him  when  the  silver  moon 
Shone  on  my  dew-bespangled  trousers, 

With  dartfish;  but  he  was  "too  soon"- 

Though,  sooth  to  say,  I  caught  some  rousers; 

And  sadly  viewed  the  ones  I  caught, 

They  loomed  so  small  and  seemed  so  poor, 

'Twas  finding  pebbles  where  one  sought 
A  gem  of  price — a  Kohinoor. 

I've  often  weighed  him  (with  my  eyes), 
As  he  with  most  prodigious  flounces 

Rose  to  the  surface  after  flies. 

(He  weighs  four  pounds  and  seven  ounces.) 


250  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

I  tried  him — Heaven  absolve  my  soul— 
With  some  outlandish  heathenish  gearing — 

A  pronged  machine  stuck  on  a  pole — 
A  process  that  the  boys  call  spearing. 

I  jabbed  it  at  his  dorsal  fin 
Six  feet  beneath  the  crystal  water — 

Twas  all  too  short.    I  tumbled  in, 
And  got  half  drowned — just  as  I'd  orter. 

Adieu,  O  trout  of  marvelous  size, 

Thou  piscatorial  speckled  wonder. 
Bright  be  the  waters  where  you  rise, 

And  green  the  banks  you  cuddle  under. 

— George  W.  Sears  ("Nessmuk"). 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


TROUTING 

With  slender  rod,  and  line,  and  reel, 
And  feather  fly  with  sting  of  steel, 
Whipping  the  brooks  down  sunlit  glades, 
Wading  the  streams  in  woodland  shades, 
I  come  to  the  trouter's  paradise : 
The  flashing  fins  leap  twice  or  thrice : 
Then  idle  on  this  gray  boulder  lie 
My  crinkled  line  and  colored  fly, 
While  in  the  foam-flecked,  glossy  pool 
The  shy  trout  lurk,  secure  and  cool. 

A  rock-lined,  wood-embosomed  nook, — 
Dim  cloister  of  the  chanting  brook! 


TROUTING  251 


A  chamber  within  the  channelled  hills, 
Where  the  cold  crystal  brims  and  spills, 
By  dark-browed  ledges  blackly  flows, 
Falls  from  the  cleft  the  crumbling  snows, 
And  purls  and  plashes,  breathing  round 
A  soft,  suffusing  mist  of  sound. 

Under  a  narrow  belt  of  sky 

Great  boulders  in  the  torrent  lie, 

Huge  stepping-stones  where  Titans  cross ! 

Quaint  broideries  of  vines  and  moss, 

Of  every  loveliest  hue  and  shape, 

With  tangle  and  braid  and  tassel  drape 

The  beetling  rocks,  and  veil  the  ledge, 

And  trail  long  fringe  from  the  cataract's  edge. 

A  hundred  rills  of  nectar  drip 

From  that  Olympian  beard  and  lip! 

And  see !  far  on,  it  seems  as  if 

In  every  crevice  along  the  cliff 

Some  wild  plant  grew :  the  eye  discerns 

An  ivied  castle:  feathery  ferns 

Nod  from  the  frieze  and  tuft  the  tall 

Dismantled  turret  and  ruined  wall. 

Strange  gusts  from  deeper  solitudes 
Waft  pungent  odors  of  the  woods. 
The  small,  bee-haunted  basswood-blooms 
Drop  in  the  gorge  their  faint  perfumes. 
Here  all  the  wild-wood  flowers  encamp 
That  love  the  dimness  and  the  damp. 


252  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

High  overhead  the  blue  day  shines ; 
The  glad  breeze  swings  in  the  singing  pines. 
Somewhere  aloft  in  boughs  is  heard 
The  fine  note  of  some  warbling  bird. 
In  the  alders  dank  with  noonday  dews 
A  restless  catbird  darts  and  mews. 
Dear  world !  let  summer  tourists  range 
Your  great  highways  in  quest  of  change, 
Go  seek  Niagara  and  the  sea — 
This  little  nook  suffices  me ! 

So  wild,  so  fresh,  so  solitary — 

I  muse  in  its  green  sanctuary, 

And  breathe  into  my  inmost  sense 

A  pure,  sweet,  thrilling  influence, 

A  bliss,  even  innocent  sport  would  stain, 

And  dear  old  Walton's  art  profane. 

Here,  lying  beneath  this  leaning  tree, 
On  the  soft  bank,  it  seems  to  me, 
The  winds  that  visit  this  lonely  glen 
Should  soothe  the  souls  of  sorrowing  men, — 
The  waters  o'er  these  ledges  curled 
Might  cool  the  heart  of  a  fevered  world ! 

— John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 

From  "Poetic  Works."    By  permission  of  and  arrangement  with  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company,  authorized  publishers. 


THE  ANGLER  253 


THE  ANGLER 

He  rises  ere  the  dews  at  dawn 

Like  diamonds  gleam  upon  the  lawn, 

And  down  the  fragrant  pasture  goes 

Through  buttercups  and  wild  primrose; 

The  bobolinks  amid  the  grass 

Laugh  merrily  to  see  him  pass. 

O  foolish  gossips,  in  the  midst 

He  speeds  to  keep  no  morning  tryst! 

With  fixed  intent,  he  does  not  heed 
The  mottled  moth,  a  fairy  steed, 
That  seeks  the  wood  till  night  enfold 
The  day,  and  steals  its  wealth  of  gold. 
He  gains  the  grove  where  woodbines  twine 
Around  the  boles  of  elm  and  pine, 
Nor  pauses  till  he  stands  amid 
The  reeds  where  Pan  the  piper  hid. 

What  joy  is  his  to  see  the  gleam 
Of  silvery  fin  within  the  stream, 
To  hold  in  leash  each  eager  sense 
With  silence  breathless  and  intense, 
To  mark  an  arrowy  flash,  and  feel 
The  sudden  pulsing  of  the  reel, 
As  with  electric  current  fine 
He  sends  his  nerve  along  the  line! 

Companioned  by  a  keen  desire, 
His  sturdy  patience  does  not  tire; 


254  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Through  waning  hours,  in  sun  or  rain, 
He  smiles,  content  with  meager  gain; 
Breathing  the  perfect  calm  and  broods 
In  nature's  secret  solitudes, 
Gleaning  from  river,  wood,  and  sky, 
A  deep  and  broad  philosophy. 

— Clinton  Scollard. 

From  "The  New  York  Sun." 


FISHIN' 

Jest  fishin' !    Yep — don't  care  a  rap 

'Bout  ketchin'  any, 
Been  restin'  awhile — had  a  nap 

An'  drempt  so  many 

Dif  runt  kind  o'  dreams— 

(An'  it  wan't  mor'n  a  minit 
I  dropt  off)  but  seems 

Like  those  apple  blossoms 

Droppin'  on  my  face 

Took  me  back  to  years  ago ! 
I  c'd  see  the  very  same  place 

We  boys  went  swimmin'  down  below 

The  gris'-mill  (bull-pout's  there,  y'know) 
Funny!  how  dreams  work  so  fast; 

'Bout  times  'seems  went  so  slow; 
Times  so  far  off— back  in  the  past. 


THE  SALMON  FISHERMAN  255 

Then  I  felt  her  hand  brush  mine; 

Plain  's  if  I  was  wide  awake! 
'Spose  'twas  jes'  a  blade  o'  grass 

Just  touchin'  me — by  mistake. 

She  didn't  'prove  o'  fishin' 

Reckoned  hooks  hurt  'im  some 
Anyway — jes'  finds  me  wishin' 

More  o'  them  dreams'd  come. 

— Constance  Fassett  Wilbur. 

Permission  of  "Outing  Magazine." 


THE  SALMON  FISHERMAN 

Near  where  sea  meets  river 

He  wets  his  net — 

World  weight  of  water  laves 

His  floating  domicile, 

Falling  as  Neptune's  lungs  intake, 

Rising  as  they  expel. 

With  barricade  of  oiled  twine, 
Made  taut  from  buoy  to  buoy, 
Along  a  bobbing  horizon  of  corks, 
He  lies  in  eager  wait 
For  silvery  salmon  red, 
In  jumping,  joyous  race     . 
To  answer  Nature's  urge 
To  propagate. 


256  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Alone,  a  fisher  through  the  night, 
'Mid  crash  of  ghostly  silences, 
Mere  blur  upon  God's  canvas, 
He  seeks  his  futile  soul, 
Nor  asks  for  aught  but  luck 
To  match  his  native  skill  and  gear 
'Gainst  instinct  unsuppressed, 
Since  birth  of  time. 

Comrade  is  he  to  Caliban. 

Mermaids  pull  his  floats  adown 

With  fish  fresh  captive  by  the  gills, 

To  coax  a  caress  from  his  lips, 

In  vain; 

One  all  absorbing  thing  he  thinks, 

While  beauty's  arrayed  on  every  hand, 

Tis  this — 

What  is  the  price  of  fish? 

— W.  Hamar  Greenwood. 


KEEP  FISHIN' 

Hi  Somers  was  the  durndest  cuss 
For  ketchin'  fish —  he  sure  was  great! 
He  never  used  to  make  no  fuss 
About  the  kind  o'  pole  er  bait 
Er  weather  neither — he'd  jes'  say, 
"I  got  to  ketch  a  mess  to-day," 
An'  toward  the  creek  you'd  see  him  slide 
A-whislin'  soft  and  walkin'  wide. 


KEEP  FISHIN'  257 


I  sez  one  day  to  Hi,  sez  I, 
"How  do  you  allers  ketch  'em,  Hi?" 
He  give  his  bait  another  swish  in 
An'  chucklin'  sez,  "I  jes'  keep  fishinY' 

Hi  took  a-readin'  law  at  night, 

An'  purty  soon,  the  first  he  knowed, 

He  had  a  lawsuit,  won  his  fight, 

An'  was  a  lawyer — I'll  be  blowed! 

He  knowed  more  law  than  Squire  McNab, 

An'  though  he  had  no  gift  o'  gab 

To  brag  about,  somehow  he  made 

A  sober  sort  o'  talk  that  played 

The  mischief  with  the  other  side. 

When  asked  how  he  got  in  condition, 

He  laughed  an'  said,  "I  jes'  keep  fishinY' 

Well,  Hi  is  Governor  Somers  now, 
A  big  man  roun'  the  State,  you  bet ! 
To  me,  the  same  old  Hi,  somehow 
The  same  old  champeen  fisher  yet. 
It  wasn't  so  much  the  bait  er  pole, 
It  wasn't  so  much  the  fishin'  hole, 
But  jes'  his  fishin' — an'  I  guess, 
A  sober,  stiddy,  cheerful  kind 
O'  keepin'  at  it — don't  you  mind? 
An'  that  is  why  I  can't  help  wishin' 
That  more  o'  us  would  jes'  keep  fishin'. 

—Ray  Clarke  Rose, 
n 


258  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

LEVEN  WATER 

Pure  stream,  in  whose  transparent  wave 
My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave, 
No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source; 
No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course, 
That  sweetly  warbles  o'er  its  bed, 
With  white,  round,  polish'd  pebbles  spread; 
While,  lightly  poised,  the  scaly  brood 
In  myriads  cleave  the  crystal  flood; 
The  springing  trout  in  speckled  pride, 
The  salmon,  monarch  of  the  tide, 
The  ruthless  pike  intent  on  war, 
The  silver  eel,  the  mottled  par. 
Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 
A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make, 
By  bowers  of  birch,  and  groves  of  pine, 
And  edges  flower'd  with  eglantine. 

— Tobias  Smollett. 

From  "Ode  to  Leven  Water." 

THE  SMALL-MOUTH  BLACK  BASS 

The  little-mouth  has  little  scales, 
There's  red  in  his  handsome  eye, 

The  scales  extend  on  his  vertical  fins, 
And  his  forehead  is  round  and  high. 

His  forehead  is  round  and  high,  my  boys, 
And  he  sleeps  the  winter  through ; 

He  likes  the  rocks  in  the  summer  time— 
Micropterus  dolomieu. 

— Fred  Mather. 


THE  ANGLER'S  VINDICATION         259 


THE  BIG-MOUTH  BLACK  BASS 

The  big-mouth  has  the  biggest  scales, 
And  a  pit  scooped  in  his  head ; 

His  mouth  is  cut  beyond  his  eye, 
In  which  is  nary  a  red. 


In  his  eye  is  nary  a  red,  my  boys, 

But  keen  and  well  he  sees ; 
He  has  a  dark  stripe  on  his  side — 

Microjpterus  salmoides. 

— Fred  Mather. 


THE  ANGLER'S  VINDICATION 

Say  not  our  hands  are  cruel, 

What  deeds  provoke  the  blame? 
Content  our  golden  jewel, 
No  blemish  on  our  name : 
Creation's  lords, 
We  need  no  swords 
To  win  a  withering  fame. 

Say  not  in  gore  and  guile 

We  waste  the  livelong  day: 
Let  those  alone  revile 
Who  feel  our  subtle  sway, 
When  fancy-led 
The  sward  we  tread, 
And  while  the  morn  away. 


260  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Oh !  not  in  camp  or  court 

Our  best  delights  we  find, 
But  in  some  loved  resort 
With  water,  wood,  and  wind, 
Where  nature  works 
And  beauty  lurks 
In  all  her  craft  enshrined. 

There  captive  to  her  will, 

Yet,  'mid  our  fetters  free, 
We  seek  by  singing  rill 
The  green  and  shady  tree, 
And  chant  our  lay 
To  flower  and  fay, 
Or  list  the  linnet's  glee. 

Thus  glides  the  golden  hour, 

Until  the  chimes  of  toil 
Recall  from  brook  and  bower; 
Then,  laden  with  our  spoil, 
With  beating  heart 
We  kindly  part 
And  leave  the  haunted  soil. 

— Thomas  Tod  Stoddart, 


THE  FISHING  OUTFIT 

You  may  talk  of  stylish  raiment, 
You  may  boast  your  broadcloth  fine, 

And  the  price  you  gave  in  payment 
May  be  treble  that  of  mine. 


THE  FISHING  OUTFIT  261 

But  there's  one  suit  I'd  not  trade  you 

Though  it's  shabby  and  it's  thin, 
For  the  garb  your  tailor  made  you : 
That's  the  tattered, 
Mud-bespattered 
Suit  that  I  go  fishing  in. 

There's  no  king  in  silks  and  laces 

And  with  jewels  on  his  breast, 
With  whom  I  would  alter  places. 

There's  no  man  so  richly  dressed 
Or  so  like  a  fashion  panel 

That,  his  luxuries  to  win, 
I  would  swap  my  shirt  of  flannel 
And  the  rusty, 
Frayed  and  dusty 

Suit  that  I  go  fishing  in. 

'Tis  an  outfit  meant  for  pleasure; 

It  is  freedom's  raiment,  too; 
It's  a  garb  that  I  shall  treasure 

Till  my  time  of  life  is  through. 
Though  perhaps  it  looks  the  saddest 

Of  all  robes  for  mortal  skin, 
I  am  proudest  and  I'm  gladdest 
In  that  easy, 
Old  and  greasy 
Suit  that  I  go  fishing  in. 

— Edgar  A.  Guest. 

From  "Just  Folks."    Copyrighted  by  and  permission  from  Reilly  &  Lee  Co. 


262  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

TO  MY  DEAR  AND  MOST  WORTHY  FRIEND, 
MR.  IZAAK  WALTON 

Whilst  in  this  cold  and  blust'ring  clime, 
Where  bleak  winds  howl,  and  tempests  roar, 

We  pass  away  the  roughest  time 
Has  been  for  many  years  before: 

Whilst  from  the  most  tempest'ous  nooks 
The  chillest  blasts  our  peace  invade, 

And  by  great  rains  our  smallest  brooks 
Are  almost  navigable  made : 

Whilst  all  the  ills  are  so  improv'd 

Of  this  dead  quarter  of  the  year, 
That  even  you,  so  much  belov'd, 

We  would  not  now  wish  with  us  here: 

In  this  estate,  I  say,  it  is 

Some  comfort  to  us  to  suppose, 
That  in  a  better  clime  than  this 

You,  our  dear  friend,  have  more  repose: 

And  some  delight  to  me  the  while, 

Though  Nature  now  does  weep  in  rain, 

To  think  that  I  have  seen  her  smile, 
And  haply  may  do  so  again. 

If  the  all-ruling  Power  please 

We  live  to  see  another  May, 
We'll  recompense  an  age  of  these 

Foul  days  in  one  fine  fishing  day: 


IZAAK  WALTON 263 

We  then  shall  have  a  day  or  two, 

Perhaps  a  week,  wherein  to  try 
What  the  best  master's  hand  can  do 

With  the  most  deadly  killing  fly: 

A  day  without  too  bright  a  beam, 

A  warm,  but  not  a  scorching  sun, 
A  southern  gale  to  curl  the  stream, 

And,  master,  half  our  work  is  done. 

There,  whilst  behind  some  bush  we  wait 

The  scaly  people  to  betray, 
We'll  prove  it  just  with  treach'rous  bait 

To  make  the  preying  trout  our  prey: 

And  think  ourselves  in  such  an  hour 
Happier  than  those,  though  not  so  high, 

Who,  like  leviathans,  devour 
Of  meaner  men  the  smaller  fry. 

This,  my  best  friend,  at  my  poor  home 
Shall  be  our  pastime  and  our  theme ; 

But  then,  should  you  not  deign  to  come, 
You  make  all  this  a  flatt'ring  dream. 

— Charles  Cotton. 

TO  MY  DEAR  BROTHER  IZAAK  WALTON 

Erasmus  in  his  learned  colloquies 
Has  mixt  some  toys,  that  by  varieties 
He  might  entice  all  readers:  for  in  him 
Each  child  may  wade,  or  tallest  giant  swim. 


264  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  such  is  this  Discourse:  there's  none  so  low 
Or  highly  learn'd,  to  whom  hence  may  not  flow 
Pleasures  and  information ;  both  which  are 
Taught  us  with  so  much  art,  that  I  might  swear, 
Safely,  the  choicest  critic  cannot  tell 
Whether  your  matchless  judgment  most  excell 
In  angling  or  its  praise:  where  commendation 
First  charms,  then  makes  an  art  a  recreation. 
Twas  so  to  me:  who  saw  the  cheerful  spring 
Pictur'd  in  every  meadow,  heard  birds  sing 
Sonnets  in  every  grove,  saw  fishes  play 
In  the  cool  crystal  springs,  like  lambs  in  May; 
And  they  may  play,  till  anglers  read  this  book; 
But  after,  'tis  a  wise  fish  'scapes  a  hook. 

—John  Floud. 

THE  LAST  CAST 
The  Angler  s  Apology 

Just  one  cast  more !  how  many  a  year 
Beside  how  many  a  pool  and  stream, 

Beneath  the  falling  leaves  and  sere, 

I've  sighed,  reeled  up,  and  dreamed  my  dream! 

Dreamed  of  the  sport  since  April  first, 
Her  hands  fulfilled  of  flowers  and  snow, 

Adown  the  pastoral  valleys  burst 
Where  Ettrick  and  the  Teviot  flow. 

Dreamed  of  the  singing  showers  that  break, 
And  sting  the  lochs,  or  near  or  far, 

And  rouse  the  trout,  and  stir  "the  take," 
From  Urigil  to  Lochinvar. 


THE  LAST  CAST 265 

Dreamed  of  the  kind  propitious  sky 

O'er  Ari  Innes  brooding  grey; 
The  sea  trout,  rushing  at  the  fly, 

Breaks  the  black  wave  with  sudden  spray ! 

Brief  are  man's  days  at  best ;  perchance 
I  waste  my  own,  who  have  not  seen 

The  castled  palaces  of  France 

Shine  on  the  Loire  in  summer  green. 

And  clear  and  fleet  Eurotas  still, 

You  tell  me,  laves  his  reedy  shore, 
And  flows  beneath  his  fabled  hill 

Where  Dian  drave  the  chase  of  yore. 

And  "like  a  horse  unbroken"  yet 

The  yellow  stream,  with  rush  and  foam, 

'Neath  tower,  and  bridge,  and  parapet, 
Girdles  his  ancient  mistress,  Rome! 

I  may  not  see  them,  but  I  doubt 

If  seen  I'd  find  them  half  so  fair 
As  ripples  of  the  rising  trout 

That  feed  beneath  the  elms  of  Yair. 

Nay,  Spring  I'd  meet  by  Tweed  or  Ail, 
And  Summer  by  Loch  Assynt's  deep, 

And  Autumn  in  that  lovely  vale 
Where  wedded  Avons  westward  sweep. 


266  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Or  where,  amid  the  empty  fields, 

Among  the  brackens  of  the  glen, 
Her  yellow  wreath  October  yields, 

To  crown  the  crystal  brows  of  Ken. 

Unseen,  Eurotas,  southward  steal, 
Unknown,  Alpheus,  westward  glide, 

You  never  heard  the  ringing  reel, 
The  music  of  the  watertide ! 

Though  Gods  have  walked  your  woods  among, 
Though  nymphs  have  fled  your  banks  along ; 

You  speak  not  that  familiar  tongue 
Tweed  murmurs  like  my  cradle  song. 

My  cradle  song, — nor  other  hymn 
I'd  choose,  nor  gentler  requiem  clear 

Than  Tweed's,  that  through  death's  twilight  dim, 
Mourned  in  the  latest  Minstrel's  ear! 

— Andrew  Lang. 

From  "Rhymes  a  la  Mode,"  Longmans,  Green,  &  Co. 


VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER 

Dear  friends,  who  are  listening  so  sweetly  the  while, 
With  your  lips  double-reefed  in  a  snug  little  smile,— 
I  leave  you  two  fables,  both  drawn  from  the  deep,— 
The  shells  you  may  drop,  but  the  pearls  you  may  keep. 


VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER  267 

The  fish  called  the  FLOUNDER,  perhaps  ycu  may 

know, 

Has  one  side  for  use  and  another  for  show; 
One  side  for  the  public,  a  delicate  brown, 
And  one  that  is  white,  which  he  always  keeps  down. 

A  very  young  flounder,  the  flattest  of  flats, 

(And  they're  none  of  them  thicker  than  opera  hats,) 

Was  speaking  more  freely  than  charity  taught 

Of  a  friend  and  relation  that  just  had  been  caught. 

"My!  what  an  exposure!  just  see  what  a  sight! 
I  blush  for  my  race, — he  is  showing  his  white! 
Such  spinning  and  wriggling, — why,  what  does  he  wish? 
How  painfully  small  to  respectable  fish!" 

Then  said  an  old  SCULP  IN, — "My  freedom  excuse, 
But  you're  playing  the  cobbler  with  holes  in  your  shoes; 
Your  brown  side  is  up, — but  just  wait  till  you're  tried 
And  you'll  find  that  all  flounders  are  white  on  one  side." 

There's  a  slice  near  the  PICKEREL'S  pectoral  fins, 
Where  the  thorax  leaves  off  and  the  venter  begins; 
Which  his  brother,  survivor  of  fish-hooks  and  lines, 
Though  fond  of  his  family,  never  declines. 

He  loves  his  relations;  he  feels  they'll  be  missed; 
But  that  one  little  titbit  he  cannot  resist; 
So  your  bait  may  be  swallowed,  no -matter  how  fast, 
For  you  catch  your  next  fish  with  a  piece  of  the  last. 

—Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


268  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


FISHIN'  TIME 

Along  about  this  time  o'  year, 
When  frosty  nights  are  o'er, 

I  sneak  up  in  the  attic, 
And  I  lock  the  attic  door. 

Then  I  open  up  my  old  trunk 
That's  collected  dust  for  years, 

And  I  start  to  snoopin'  round  a  bit 
While  weepin'  joyful  tears. 

The  reason  for  this  strategy 
Need  not  be  put  in  rhyme. 

The  fact  about  the  matter  is, 
It's  now  near  fishin'  time. 

I  look  my  good  old  waders  o'er, 

And  fix  my  wicker  creel ; 
Next  put  some  hob-nails  in  my  shoes, 

And  lubricate  my  reel. 

My  fly  box  may  need  mending, 
And  more  leaders  must  be  tied; 

To  be  sure  my  flies  need  sorting, 
That's  a  fact  can't  be  denied. 

Then  too  there  is  my  tapered  line, 

All  oiled  with  loving  care, 
And  every  inch  inspected, 

Just  to  see  no  kinks  are  there. 


FISHIN'  TIME  269 


The  net  needs  fixing  on  the  frame, 
Which  brings  to  mind  the  time 

I  stood  in  water  to  my  waist, 
And  fought  the  fight  sublime. 

Then  lastly  comes  my  fav'rite  rod, 

A  present  from  my  wife ; 
I  joint  it  up  and  lo!  that  rod 

Becomes  a  thing  of  life. 

Coachmen,  hackles,  Parmacheene, 

Recall,  as  does  my  rod, 
Some  scene  in  wild  secluded  spot 

When  I  communed  with  God. 

There's  more  than  fish  to  fishin', 

For  you  come  to  realize 
How  small  a  fellow  really  is 

In  Mother  Nature's  eyes. 

It  puts  the  red  blood  in  your  veins, 
And  sets  you  right  with  men ; 

That's  why  the  time  can't  come  too  soon 
For  fishin' — once  again. 

—P.  S.  Peck. 

Permission  of  "The  American  Angler." 


270  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 


WATCHING  THE  MINNOWS 

Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 
And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings ; 
They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-dove's  cooings. 
How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend; 
Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 
To  the  o'erhanging  sallows:  blades  of  grass 
Slowly  across  the  chequered  shadows  pass ; 
Why,  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 
To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 
A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds; 
Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 
Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 
To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 
Tempered  with  coolness.    How  they  ever  wrestle 
With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 
Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand. 
If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 
That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain ; 
But  turn  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 

— John  Keats. 


TROUT  FISHING 

Across  the  fields  and  through  the  dew 
Still  sparkling  on  the  blossoming  clover, 

We  lightly  trudge,  with  all  the  blue 
Broad  arch  of  morning  beaming  over; 


TROUT  FISHING 271 

The  woods  before  are  dark  and  cool, 
With  here  and  there  a  golden  glimmer, 

And  over  many  a  wayside  pool 

A  gleam,  a  flash,  a  shade,  a  shimmer. 

By  winding  paths  and  mossy  lanes, 

All  brightly  fringed  with  flower  and  berry, 
We  pass,  nor  pause  to  note  the  strains 

Of  woodland  warblers  blithe  and  merry. 
Our  thoughts  are  bent  on  "cast"  and  "play." 

We  hardly  heed  the  splendor  o'er  us, 
But  haste  with  quickening  steps  away 

To  reach  the  glorious  sport  before  us. 

With  lisping,  low- voiced  monotone, 

The  brook  flows  by  in  curves  and  sallies, 
And  bears  its  rippling  music  down 

To  daisied  slopes  and  verdant  valleys; 
Through  serried  pines  the  sunlight  falls, 

Like  grains  of  gold  thro'  emerald  drifted, 
And  near,  the  cleft  and  towering  walls 

Of  ledge  and  cliff  to  heaven  are  lifted. 

Soft  winds  blow  down  from  ridge  and  grove 

Where  balsam  boughs  are  gently  swaying, 
And  round  a  silvery  beech  above 

Two  heedless  squirrels  briskly  playing. 
But  now  to  work  with  rod  and  line, 

And  dainty  flies  on  trusted  leader; 
We'll  take  the  first  auspicious  sign, 

And  cast  below  yon  slanting  cedar. 


272  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

A  gleam,  a  splash!    By  George,  he's  fast! 

A  lusty  fellow  and  how  he  rushes, 
Now  here,  now  there,  now  swiftly  past 

A  bend  of  fern,  and  alder-bushes ! 
The  whistling  line  spins  merrily  out; 

He  leaps  and  flings  a  sparkling  torrent 
Of  crystals  round,  then  wheels  about, 

And  heads  straight  up  the  foamy  current! 

Behind  a  boulder  now  he  darts, 

And  now  across  to  deep  recesses 
Beneath  a  balmy  bank,  then  starts 

For  sheltering  beds  of  tangled  cresses ; 
But  vain,  all  vain,  subdued  at  last, 

He  yields  and  faintly  gasps  and  flounders; 
'Tis  o'er — your  sportive  hour  is  past, 

O  royal  prince  of  plump  two-pounders ! 

Again  with  feathery  touch  the  flies 

Dance  lightly  over  pool  and  shallow, 
And,  darting  through  reflected  skies, 

The  wary  trout  retreat  or  follow; 
A  "coachman"  now  their  fancy  takes, 

Or  now  a  "miller"  or  now  a  "hackle" 
And  many  a  plungin'  beauty  breaks, 

To  try  our  skill  and  test  our  tackle. 

Still  higher,  higher  mounts  the  sun, 
The  morn  hastes  on  and  noon  is  nearing; 

Now  varying  sounds  come  borne  upon 
The  breeze  that  blows  o'er  copse  and  clearing; 


TROUT  FISHING  273 

The  far  cock-crow,  the  jangling  bells 

That  tells  where  browsing  herds  are  straying; 

The  quail's  clear  pipe  in  lonely  dell, 
The  woodman's  call,  the  hounds'  deep  baying. 

Still  down  the  grassy  marge  we  go, 

Now  list'ning  to  the  tall  trees  moaning, 
Now  catching  from  a  glade  below 

A  drowsy  mill's  perpetual  droning. 
Still  on: — the  miller's  brown-faced  boy 

Stands  knee-deep  in  the  shining  water, 
And  near,  with  startled  glance  and  coy, 

The  miller's  comely,  dark-eyed  daughter. 

So  through  the  long,  bright  balmy  days 

In  shade  and  sun  alternate  ranging 
We  speed  the  hastening  hours  away, 

Where  scene  and  sound  are  ever  changing, 
Till  all  the  hills  are  dashed  with  gold, 

That  pales  eve's  dimly  dawning  crescent, 
And  twilight  falls  on  field  and  wold, 

Like  veiling  gauze  o'er  forms  quiescent. 

Soft,  soothing  calm  of  summer  woods, 

Of  streams  that  chant  in  rhythmic  numbers, 
Of  fragrant,  flowery  solitudes 

Where  peace  with  folded  pinions  slumbers, 
Full  oft  to  thee  doth  fancy  take 

Her  airy  flight  from  burdened  highways, 
To  roam  again  by  brook  or  lake, 

Or  dream  in  leafy  paths  and  byways. 

— Daniel  Connolly. 

18 


274  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

BRING  THE  ROD,  THE  LINE,  THE  REEL! 

Bring  the  rod,  the  line,  the  reel ! 
Bring,  oh  bring,  the  osier  creel ! 
Bring  me  flies  of  fifty  kinds, 
Bring  me  showers,  and  clouds,  and  winds ! 
All  things  right  and  tight, 

All  things  well  and  proper, 
Trailer  red  and  bright, 

Dark  and  wily  dropper — 
Casts  of  midges  bring, 

Made  of  plover-hackle, 
With  a  gaudy  wing, 
And  a  cobweb  tackle. 

Lead  me  where  the  river  flows, 
Show  me  where  the  alder  grows, 
Reeds  and  rushes,  moss  and  weed, 
To  them  lead  me — quickly  lead, 
Where  the  roving  trout 

Watches  round  an  eddy, 
With  his  eager  snout 

Pointed  up  and  ready, 
Till  a  careless  fly 

On  the  surface  wheeling, 
Tempts  him  rising  sly 
From  his  safe  concealing. 

There,  as  with  a  pleasant  friend, 
I  the  happy  hours  will  spend, 
Urging  on  the  subtle  hook, 
O'er  the  dark  and  chancy  nook, 


FISHIN'  WITH  AN  OLD  BAMBOO       275 

Where  a  hand  expert 
Every  motion  swaying, 

And  on  the  alert 

When  the  trout  are  playing; 

Bring  me  rod  and  reel, 
Flies  of  every  feather, 

Bring  the  osier  creel- 
Send  me  glorious  weather ! 

—Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


FISHIN*  WITH  AN  OLD  BAMBOO 

Is  there  any  fun  like  fishin' — 

In  yer  pockets  not  a  sou — 
Is  there  any  fun  like  fishin*, 

With  an  old  bamboo? 

With  a  rusty  spike  fer  sinker, 
With  a  bobber — some  old  cork ; 

Some  old  clothes  that  look  's  tho'  Noah 
Wore  'em  out  while  in  the  ark. 

Big  straw  hat — on  top  an  air  hole, 
Red  bandanna  'round  yer  neck, — 

Look  jist  like  a  bloomin'  scare-crow 
Without  carin' — not  a  speck. 

Maybe  slick,  this  expert  cast  in' — 
Fancy  reels  an'  silk  lines  too,  ' 

But  there's  no  fun  jist  like  fishin' 
With  an  old  bamboo. 


276  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Get  yer  line  caught  on  a  snag,  an' 
Jerk  it  out  an'  catch  a  branch, — 

Swear,  an'  know  there's  no  one  listenin' 
An'  y'  own  the  whole  ranch. 

Get  your  cow-hides  good  an'  muddy, 
Get  yer  nose  all  sun-burnt  red, — 

Lookin's  tho'  y'  had  a  jag  on — 
Fer  a  week'd  been  raisin'  Ned. 

If  y'  catch  'em,  course  it's  better, 
If  y'  don't — don't  care  a  sou,— 

What's  the  difference  when  yer  fishin' 
With  an  old  bamboo? 

— T.  R.  Shaw. 

Permission  of  "Field  and  Stream." 


THE  ANGLER'S  SONG 

Once  more  I  tread  thy  pebbly  shore, 

Fairbrook! 

And  view  the  scenes  I  saw  lang  syne, 
Accoutred,  as  so  oft  before, 

With  tapering  rod  and  silken  line 
And  barbed  hook. 

The  mill  dilapidated  stands ; 

And  see 

Its  moss-grown  wheel,  forever  still, 
All  choked  with  weed  and  drifting  sands, 
O'er  which  the  water's  dancing  rill 
Made  melody. 


THE  OLD  MILL  BY  THE  RIVER        277 

There,  where  the  overhanging  tree 

Bends  low, 

The  naiad  of  the  brook  to  woo, 
Patient, — from  care  and  trouble  free — 
How  oft  the  fatal  snare  I  threw, 
Long  days  ago! 

Again  I  angle  in  the  pool, 

Or  troll 

The  ripples'  murm'ring,  eddying  flow; 
The  while  the  sweet  south-wind  doth  cool 
The  sultry  heat  of  noontide's  glow 
As  on  I  stroll. 

What  though  successless?    Still  I  fish 

And  wait; 

And  still  the  winding  brooklet  trace ; 
No  happier  pastime  might  I  wish, 
Than  thus  to  tempt  the  finny  race, 
And  meditate! 

— Charles  Dexter. 

THE  OLD  MILL  BY  THE  RIVER 

Here  in  the  years  when  life  was  bright 
With  dewy  mornings  and  sunset  light, 
In  the  pleasant  season  of  leafy  June, 
In  each  idle,  holiday  afternoon 
I  lov'd  to  wander  with  willow  wand — 
I  lov'd  on  the  river  border  to  stand 
And  take  the  trout  or  the  yellow  bream 
That  leap'd,  that  glanc'd  athwart  the  stream. 


278  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

With  broken  window,  with  hingeless  door, 
Thro'  which  the  slanting  sunbeams  pour; 
With  leaning  gable,  and  settling  wall, 
O'er  which  the  draperied  ivies  fall ; 
With  rafter  moldy,  worm-eaten  beam, 
O'er  which  the  silken  cobwebs  stream, 
Fast  by  the  river-banks  serene 
The  old  forsaken  mill  is  seen. 

Its  roof  shows  many  a  chasm  and  rent, 
Its  creaking  vane  is  crack'd  and  bent, 
In  and  out  the  swallows  fly, 
Under  the  eaves  their  dwellings  lie. 
The  leather-wing' d  bats,  when  day  is  dim, 
Thro'  vacant  rooms  and  granaries  skim; 
Its  shingles  that  ages  ago  were  new, 
Splendid  with  painters'  lavish  hue, 
Are  faded  now  and  swing  in  the  gale, 
Scarce  held  by  the  loosen' d  rusty  nail ; 
The  clapboards  rattle  and  clank  amain 
In  gusts  of  the  snow-fall  and  the  rain, 
For  the  dust  of  many  a  lapsing  year 
Hath  writ  its  wasteful  chronicles  here. 

The  dam  o'er  which  the  waters  pour 
Is  settling  and  crumbling  by  the  shore; 
The  slippery  logs  and  mossy  stone 
Yield  to  the  current  one  by  one; 
And  swift  thro'  many  a  rent  abyss 
The  spouting  rivulets  foam  and  hiss, 
And  soon  must  the  crazy  fabric  decay, 
And  the  torrent  sweep  uncheck'd  away. 


THE  SALMON  279 


The  water-wheel  so  black  and  vast, 
With  beam  like  a  battle-vessel's  mast 
That  once  would  churn  with  mighty  sweep 
The  boiling  waters  so  dark  and  deep, 
Lies  now  a  wreck  in  humbled  pride, 
Trembling  with  each  assault  of  the  tide. 

Under  the  crumbling,  blacken' d  wheel 
The  crystal  bubbles  circle  and  reel ; 
Over  and  under  the  eddies  boil 
Round  molder'd  timber  and  rotting  post; 
In  many  a  circling  ripple  they  coil 
In  sudden  plunge,  in  wild  turmoil, 
Now  seen  an  instant,  then  quickly  lost. 

— Isaac  McLellan. 

THE  SALMON 

Shaft  of  living  silver,  chased 

With  Nature's  lines  of  beauty; 
Strength  with  agile  lightness  graced, 

Like  Love  when  linked  with  Duty; 
Glistening  with  a  rainbow  sheen 

When  the  sunray  tender 
Lights  thy  scales  of  pearly  green 

With  a  gleaming  splendor. 

Native  of  pure,  inland  streams, 

Why  an  ocean  lover 
Thou  becom'st  in  early  dreams, 

Who  shall  e'er  discover? 


280  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Why,  when  grown  to  grilse,  of  sea 

Thou  so  soon  art  sated, 
And  returnest — only  He 

Knows  who  thee  created ! 

Who  hath  given  thee  power  to  know 

Thine  own  native  river, 
From  all  streams  that  downward  flow 

Into  ocean  ever  ? 
Instinct  is  a  name;  no  more, 

Not  the  potence  causing ; 
Let  the  faithless  that  explore; 

I  adore  while  pausing. 

Oh,  when  home,  sweet  home's  thy  song, 

From  the  sea  returning, 
With  maternal  instinct  strong 

In  thy  bosom  burning, 
What  can  check  thine  arrowy  course  ? 

Neither  fall  nor  boulder, 
Curving  with  an  innate  force 

O'er  each  barrier's  shoulder. 

But,  O  swimmer  strong !  beware, 

Resting  on  thy  journey, 
Seeking  sweet,  delicious  fare, 

Him  who  seeks  a  tourney ! 
'Ware  thee,  lest  he  should  deceive 

E'en  thine  eye  sagacious, 
Making  thee  a  lie  believe 

With  a  fly  fallacious ! 


BALLADE— THE  FALSE  AND  THE  TRUE    281 

Fly  to  please  thy  varying  mood, 

Suiting  sky  and  water, 
Robed  in  colors  many-hued, 

Like  a  sultan's  daughter! 
Or,  together  blended,  show 

Like  a  young  moon  crescent, 
Rising  o'er  the  sunset  glow, 

Softly  opalescent. 

Ah,  beware  lest  thou  espy 

The  Castle-Connell  bending! 
Feel  that  strange,  mysterious  fly 

With  thy  strength  contending ! 
Taste  it  not,  it  means  thee  harm ! 

Tail  it  hath — O  fear  it!— 
Link'd  with  yonder  stalwart  arm, 

And  the  gaff  is  near  it ! 

Oh,  thy  terror  when  his  barb 

Shall  thy  fears  awaken, 
And  that  fly  in  gaudy  garb 

Cannot  be  outshaken! 
Rush,  and  leap,  and  dive!  ah  me! 

Vain  thy  mad  endeavor! 
No  more  river,  lake,  or  sea 

Home  of  thine  for  ever. 

— Cotswold  Isys. 

BALLADE  OF  THE  FALSE  AND  THE  TRUE 

When  virgin  Spring  puts  on  her  bridal  veil 

To  wed  hot-blooded  Summer,  I  am  fain 
To  join  their  nuptial  feast  in  woodland  dale, 


282 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Whose  rippling  brooks  no  other  feet  profane; 

And  there,  where  trout  to  wondrous  size  attain, 
And  some  are  caught  and  some,  though  pricked,  go  free, 

Far  from  the  city's  many-tongued  refrain, 
My  old  fly  rod  has  ne'er  been  false  to  me. 

And  once  I  sang  of  Love,  of  knights  in  mail, 

Of  maidens  with  the  eyes  of  sunny  Spain, 
Of  pallid  moon,  of  warbling  nightingale, 

The  adolescence  of  an  amorous  swain. 

Let  others  sing  to  Julia,  Jennie,  Jane, 
Their  puny  passions  making  piteous  plea; 

True  to  maturer  love  I  will  remain; 
My  old  fly  rod  has  ne'er  been  false  to  me. 

Erstwhile  in  song  I  praised  stone  mugs  of  ale, 

The  wit-inspiring  sparkle  of  champagne, 
The  flowing  bowl,  the  merry  quip,  the  tale 

Told  round  the  board  ere  Bacchus  bold  was  slain. 

The  kindred  spirits,  all  in  sportive  vein, 
With  luring  laughter  held  life's  golden  key. 

Ah,  yesterday!    I  know  this  morning's  pain. 
My  old  fly  rod  has  ne'er  been  false  to  me. 

Companion,  sweetheart,  friend,  why  should  I  deign 
Thy  virtue  to  expose,  thy  loyalty? 
Wine,  woman,  song,  what  profiteth  to  gain? 
My  old  fly  rod  has  ne'er  been  false  to  me. 

— Sam  S.  Stinson  ("Silent  Sam'). 

Permission  of  "The  American  Angler." 


THE  ANGLER'S  TOAST  283 


THE  ANGLER'S  TOAST 

When  men  meet  to  drink  to  those  they  love  most, 
Let  anglers  fill  up  their  cups  for  a  toast, 

Touch  lip  to  no  glass 

To  proud  dame  or  lass 
Who  from  gentle  sport  will  tempt  you  to  stray ; 

But  your  cups  clink, 

Ye  anglers,  and  drink 
A  health  to  the  fish, 
To  the  biggest  fish, 

The  fish  that  got  away ! 

You  lured  him  by  craft;  he  fought  you  at  odds— 
In  fair  fight  or  foul,  he  splintered  your  rods. 

Barbed  weapon  of  steel 

You've  oft  made  him  feel ; 
But,  valiant  and  strong,  he  won  every  fray. 

Then  fill  to  the  brim 

And  drink  deep  to  him — 
A  toast  to  the  fish, 
To  the  biggest  fish, 

The  fish  that  got  away ! 

What  others  you've  killed  with  cunning  and  skill 
You've  never  caught  him  and  never  you  will. 

In  brook,  lake  or  sea 

The  monarch  is  he — 
Ye  anglers,  stand  up  and  due  homage  pay. 


284  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Let  every  glass  ring, 
A  toast  to  the  King ! 
Long  life  to  the  fish, 
To  the  biggest  fish, 

The  fish  that  got  away ! 

— Norman  Jeffries. 

EEL-SPEARING  BY  TORCHLIGHT 
(Anguilla) 

The  skies  are  dark;  the  moon  is  hid 
Behind  the  dusky  cloud  of  night ; 

A  bank  of  drift-fog  from  the  surge 
Hangs  heavy  on  the  sea-shore  height ; 

No  hovering  breeze  uplifts  its  wing 
Aside  the  musty  gloom  to  fling. 

But  see !  a  star  along  the  wave 

Moves  slow  and  devious,  to  and  fro ; 

Now  like  a  blazing  camp-fire  flares, 
Now,  flickering,  trembles  faint  and  low. 

Anon  it  steady  grows  and  burns 
As  hither  thro'  the  gloom  it  turns. 

Tis  the  eel-spearer's  pitchy  torch 

That  like  a  lightship's  lantern  flings 
Its  ruddy,  quivering  bar  of  light, 

As  in  the  rigging  high  it  swings. 
Nearer  and  nearer,  thro'  the  dusk, 

The  smoky  flambeau  slow  doth  float, 
And  now  the  gnome-like  fisherman 

Shows  dimly  in  his  drifting  boat. 


SAINT  PATRICK 285 

Standing  with  trident  spear  uprais'd, 

All  shadowy  on  his  task  intent, 
He  shows  like  goblin  of  the  mine 

On  some  weird,  fiendish  orgie  bent. 
He  pauses,  for  the  shooting  flame 

Reveals  the  slippery  prey  below ; 
With  sudden  plunge  he  thrusts  the  spear, 

Then  draws  it  upward  to  the  glow ; 
And  see!  the  captives  twist  and  coil, 

Dark  victims  of  his  midnight  toil. 

— Isaac  McLellan. 

SAINT  PATRICK 

No  doubt,  St.  Patrick  was  an  angler 

Of  credit  and  renown,  sir, 
And  many  a  shining  trout  he  caught, 

Ere  he  built  Dublin  town,  sir. 
Old  story  says,  (it  tells  no  lies) 

He  fished  with  bait  and  line,  sir, 
At  every  throw  he  had  a  bite, 

Which  tugged  and  shook  his  twine,  sir. 

In  troubled  streams  he  loved  to  fish, 

Then  salmon  could  not  see,  sir, 
The  trout,  and  eels,  and  also  pike, 

Were  under  this  decree,  sir. 
And  this,  perhaps,  may  solve  a  point, 

With  other  learned  matters,  sir, 
Why  Irishmen  still  love  to  fish 

Among  troubled  waters,  sir. 


286  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Some  likewise  say,  and  even  swear, 

He  was  a  goodly  saint,  sir, 
And  made  "loose  fish"  for  all  the  land, 

And  trout  as  red  as  paint,  sir. 
And  as  a  relic  of  his  power, 

It  was  his  ardent  wish,  sir, 
That  dear  old  Erin  should  always  have, 

A  number  of  "odd  fish,"  sir. 

—Robert  Blakey. 


AN  ANGLER'S  SONNET 

O  for  a  rod  mine  eager  hand  to  grace — 
A  beauteous  morn;  a  brooklet  dashing  by, 
Where  nigh  the  sands  they  comfortably  lie — 

Sly  trout  that  mock  the  rainbow's  misty  trace, 
In  the  great  dome  above — the  mystic  maze 
Of  beauty  such  that  fills  the  quiet  eye, 

And  brims  the  heart — while  up  on  high, 

The  beaming  sun  looks  down  upon  my  face! 
O  moment  rare,  when  knee-deep  in  the  cool, 

And  swirling  depths,  to  mark  the  hackle's  fall — 
Behold  a  rise,  and  then  the  cunning  fight ! 
Ah,  sweet  they  were,  these  hours  when  the  call 

Of  whistling  quail  comes  to  the  ear.    At  night 
To  homeward  turn  contented  from  the  pool ! 

— Robert  Page  Lincoln. 

Permission  of  "The  American  Angler." 


FATE  OF  THE  FATUOUS  FISHERMAN  287 

FATE  OF  THE  FATUOUS  FISHERMAN 

A  salmon  lived  near  to  Vancouver ; 

He  was  large  and  excessively  strong; 
He  was  such  an  habitual  mover 

That  he  never  was  motionless  long. 
Like  the  rest  of  the  fishes  in  Finland, 

The  rivers  he  often  would  gain, 
But  ne'er  was  contented  when  inland, 

For  he  always  remembered  the  main. 

A  fisherman  once  went  an  angling 

In  an  antediluvian  craft; 
His  neighbors  came  near  unto  strangling, 

So  much  at  that  shallop  they  laughed. 
But  the  fisher,  his  little  hook  baiting, 

Remarked,  "I  shall  win  if  I  try," 
And  for  hours  he  sat  patiently  waiting 

Till  the  salmon  rose  up  to  the  fly. 

With  a  dexterous  twist  and  a  turn,  he 

Secured  a  good  grip  on  the  hook, 
And  the  fisherman  went  on  a  journey 

That  rivaled  the  journeys  of  Cook. 
At  a  pace  that  was  simply  terrific 

The  salmon  set  out  for  the  West, 
And  he  managed  to  cross  the  Pacific, 

Not  pausing  a  moment  to  rest. 

He  skirted  the  Philippine  Islands, 

Sumatra  was  left  on  the  lee ; 
He  sped  by  the  Ceylonese  highlands, 

And  crossed  the  Arabian  Sea ; 


288  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Past  Aden  and  Suez  and  Malta 

He  went  like  a  comet,  until, 
Just  grazing  the  rock  of  Gibraltar, 

He  headed  southwest  for  Brazil. 

As  obstinate  as  a  virago, 

He  raced  till  the  following  morn, 
When,  passing  Tierra  del  Fuego, 

He  hurriedly  rounded  the  Horn. 
He  hastened  by  Juan  Fernandez, 

And  pointing  his  nose  to  Peru, 
He  came  into  view  of  the  Andes 

That  day  at  a  quarter  to  two. 

But  here  a  big  fragment  of  coral 

Ripped  off  from  the  shallop  a  plank, 
And  with  haste  that  was  almost  immoral, 

The  treacherous  cockle-shell  sank. 
The  fisher  his  head  above  water 

Maintained  by  the  aid  of  an  oar ; 
And  he  floated  an  hour  and  a  quarter 

In  the  hope  of  attaining  the  shore. 

At  last  he  cried:    "Jupiter  Ammon! 

My  merciful  fortune  I  thank 
That  I've  met  with  the  king  of  all  salmon! 

That  bite  was  a  wonder!"  and  sank. 
The  salmon  but  traveled  the  faster; 

He  said,  "I  am  innocent  quite, 
For  that  boat  was  the  cause  of  disaster ; 

Twas  a  bark  that  was  worse  than  my  bite. 
— Guy  Wetmore  Carry/. 


FISHING  289 


THE  TROUT  FISHER'S  PLEASURES 

Wand' ring  by  the  streams  apart, 
Glad  and  calm  as  they, 
Plying  still  my  simple  art, 
All  the  livelong  day. 

Seeking  out  the  shadiest  nooks 
Of  the  winding  moorland  brooks, 
Where  the  pearly  waters  sleep 
In  their  quiet  pools  and  deep. 

Where  the  greedy  trout  doth  lie, 
Ready  for  the  ensnaring  fly. 
Who  so  free  from  weeping  sorrow 
And  from  care  as  I  ? 

—Thomas  Westwood. 

FISHING 

Where  branches  spread  a  roof  of  jade  the  lazy  river 

lingers, 
And  makes  a  burnished  silver  pool  as  tranquil  as  the 

sky, 
And  out  upon  its  bosom  reach  the  birches'  mirrored 

fingers 
To  twist  and  writhe  and  waver  as  the  current  idles 

by. 
There  time  can  be  forgotten  while  you  watch  your 

dobber  floating, 

With  a  dragon  fly  above  it  who  would  rather  like  to 
light, 

19 


290  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  a  water  bug  regatta  very  busy  with  their  boating, 
And  a  kingfisher  who  clatters  like  an  airplane  in  his 

flight. 
Oh,  the  glitter  of  the  water  and  the  long,  blue,  dreamy 

shadows ! 
And  the  golden,  sandy  shallows  where  the  sunlight 

breaks  the  gloom! 
And  the  waking  daisies  forming  constellations  in  the 

meadows ! 
And  the  friendly  wind  that  tells  you  that  the  wild 

grapes  are  in  bloom! 
There,  propped  against  a  maple  trunk,  I'd  like  to  take 

my  station; 
A  can  of  worms,  a  rod,  a  line — these  constitute  my 

wish — 

And  spend  in  utter  happiness  the  balance  of  creation, 
Watching  shadows  on  the  water  while  I  sit,  and  fish, 
and  fish. 


There's  a  catbird  in  the  willow,  mixing  cussing  with 

his  singing; 
There  are  turtles  on  the  tree  root,  where  the  sun 

pours  clear  and  hot. 
When  you  lie  and  up  against  the  sky  watch  leafy 

branches  swinging, 

It  really  is  no  matter  if  you  catch  a  fish  or  not. 
For  the  vague,  uncertain  rustles  in  the  thicket  just  be- 
hind you 

May  be  a  timid  dryad  or  the  goat-hoofed,  laughing 
Pan, 


THE  ANGLER'S  CONTENTMENT        291 

And  the  folk  in  fur  and  feathers  pass  you  by  and  never 

mind  you — 
It  is  good  sometimes  in  summer  to  forget  you  are  a 

man. 
It  may  be  he's  a  coward  who  forsakes  a  world  of 

trouble, 

Who  runs  away  from  duty  for  a  day  or  so  to  dream ; 
Who  instead  of  shouts  of  victory  would  rather  hear  the 

bubble 
Of  a  willow's  fingers  trailing  in  the  current  of  a 

stream. 

Yet  I  know  one  day  He  passed  me.    I  am  still  uncer- 
tain whether 
I  saw  Him  or  I  dreamed  Him.     Yet  I  heard  the 

grasses  swish, 
And  saw  Him  stand  with  Peter  there,  good  fishermen 

together, 

And  remembered  that  He  turned  away  from  Destiny 
to  fish. 

— Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water. 

Permission  of  "The  New  York  Tribune." 

THE  ANGLER'S  CONTENTMENT 

No  empty  hopes,  no  courtly  fears  him  fright; 
No  begging  wants  his  middle  fortune  bite: 

But  sweet  content  exiles  both  misery  and  spite. 
His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 

Is  full  of  thousand  sweets  and  rich  content; 
The  smooth-leav'd  beeches  in  the  field  receive  him 

With  coolest  shade,  till  noon-tide's  heat  be  spent: 


292  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

His  life  is  neither  toss'd  in  boisterous  seas, 
Or  the  vexatious  world,  or  lost  in  slothful  ease : 
Pleas'd  and  full  blest  he  lives,  when  he  his  God  can 
please. 

......     4.      ..... 

His  bed,  more  safe  than  soft,  yields  quiet  sleeps, 

While  by  his  side  his  faithful  spouse  hath  place; 
His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 

The  lively  picture  of  his  father's  face. 
His  humble  house  or  poor  state  ne'er  torment  him; 
Less  he  could  like,  if  less  his  God  had  lent  him; 
And  when  he  dies,  green  turfs  do  for  a  tomb  content 
him.  — Phineas  Fletcher. 

THE  FISHER'S  JOYS 

Ah!  would  thou  knew'st  how  much  it  better  were 
To  'bide  among  the  simple  fisher-swains; 

No  shrieking  owl,  no  night-crow  lodgeth  here; 
Nor  is  our  simple  pleasures  mixt  with  pains: 

Our  sport  begins  with  the  beginning  year; 
In  calms,  to  pull  the  leaping  fish  to  land; 

In  roughs,  to  sing  and  dance  along  the  golden  sand. 

— Phineas  Fletcher. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN 

It  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the  river-side, 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his  boat  was  on  the 

tide; 
The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so  straight  and 

slim, 
Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  opposite  to  him. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN    293 

It  was  a  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a  lovely  maid, 
Upon  a  moonlight  evening,  a-sitting  in  the  shade; 
He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief,  as  much  as  if  to  say, 
"I'm  wide  awake,  young  oysterman,  and  all  the  folks 
away." 

Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  and  to  himself  said  he, 
"I  guess  I'll  leave  the  skiff  at  home,  for  fear  that  folks 

should  see; 

I  read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,  for  to  kiss  his  dear, 
Leander  swam  the  Hellespont, — and  I  will  swim  this 

here." 

And  he  has  leaped  into  the  waves,  and  crossed  the 

shining  stream, 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all  in  the  moonlight 

gleam; 
O  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and  words  as  soft 

as  rain, — 
But  they  have  heard  her  father's  steps,  and  in  he  leaps 

again ! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman, — "O  what  was  that, 

my  daughter?" 
"Twas  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,   I  threw  into  the 

water." 
"And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that  paddles  off 

so  fast?" 
"It's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that's  been  a-swim- 

ming  past." 


294  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman, — "Now  bring  me  my 

harpoon ! 

I'll  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the  fellow  soon." 
Down  fell  that  pretty  innocent,  as  falls  a  snow-white 

lamb, 
Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks,  like  seaweed 

on  a  clam. 


Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones !  she  waked  not  from  her 

swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in  the  waves 

was  drowned; 

But  fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity  of  their  woe, 
And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for  mermaids  down 

below. 

—Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  ANGLER'S  PRAYER 

Grant  me  the  gentle  effacement  of  malicious  envy, 
The  peaceful  retrospection  of  the  true  angler's  spirit, 
Fulfilment   of  modest,    fair-fought   and   appreciative 

victory, 

And  the  ever-keen  delight  in  a  fellow  angler's 
Good  fortune  and  accomplishment. 
This  be  my  prayer! 

—J.  Auburn  Wiborn. 


THE  ANGLER'S  SONG  295 


THE  ANGLER'S  SONG 

As  inward  love  breeds  outward  talk, 
The  hound  some  praise,  and  some  the  hawk ; 
Some,  better  pleased  with  private  sport, 
Use  tennis;  some  a  mistress  court: 

But  these  delights  I  neither  wish 

Nor  envy, — while  I  freely  fish. 

Who  hunts,  doth  oft  in  danger  ride; 

Who  hawks,  lures  oft  both  far  and  wide; 

Who  uses  games,  shall  often  prove 

A  loser;  but  who  falls  in  love, 
Is  fetter'd  in  fond  Cupid's  snare: 
My  angle  breeds  me  no  such  care. 

Of  recreation  there  is  none 
So  free  as  fishing  is  alone; 
All  other  pastimes  do  no  less 
Than  mind  and  body  both  possess : 

My  hand  alone  my  work  can  do ; 

So  I  can  fish  and  study  too. 

I  care  not,  I,  to  fish  in  seas; 
Fresh  rivers  best  my  mind  do  please ; 
Whose  sweet  calm  course  I  contemplate 
And  seek  in  life  to  imitate: 

In  civil  bounds  I  fain  would  keep, 

And  for  my  past  offences  weep. 


296  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

And  when  the  tim'rous  trout  I  wait 

To  take,  and  he  devours  my  bait, 

How  poor  a  thing,  sometimes  I  find, 

Will  captivate  a  greedy  mind: 
And  when  none  bite,  I  praise  the  wise, 
Whom  vain  allurements  ne'er  surprise. 

But  yet,  though  while  I  fish  I  fast, 
I  make  good  fortune  my  repast ; 
And  thereunto  my  friend  invite, — 
In  whom  I  more  than  that  delight, — 

Who  is  more  welcome  to  my  dish 

Than  to  my  angle  was  my  fish. 

As  well  content  no  prize  to  take, 

As  use  of  taken  prize  to  make; 

For  so  our  Lord  was  pleased,  when 

He  fishers  made  fishers  of  men ; 
Where  (which  is  in  no  other  game) 
A  man  may  fish  and  praise  His  name. 

The  first  men  that  our  Saviour  dear 
Did  choose  to  wait  upon  Him  here, 
Blest  fishers  were;  and  fish  the  last 
Food  was,  that  He  on  earth  did  taste: 
I  therefore  strive  to  follow  those, 
Whom  He  to  follow  Him  hath  chose. 

—William  Basse. 


OFF  TO  THE  FISHING  GROUND        297 

OFF  TO  THE  FISHING  GROUND 

There's  a  piping  wind  from  a  sunrise  shore 

Blowing  over  a  silver  sea, 
There's  a  joyous  voice  in  the  lapsing  tide 

That  calls  enticingly; 
The  mist  of  dawn  has  taken  flight 

To  the  dim  horizon's  bound, 
And  with  wide  sails  set  and  eager  hearts 

We're  off  to  the  fishing  ground. 

Ho,  comrades  mine,  how  that  brave  wind  sings 

Like  a  great  sea-harp  afar ! 
We  whistle  its  wild  notes  back  to  it 

As  we  cross  the  harbor  bar. 
Behind  us  there  are  the  homes  we  love 

And  the  hearts  that  are  fond  and  true, 
And  before  us  beckons  a  strong  young  day 

On  leagues  of  glorious  blue. 

Comrades,  a  song  as  the  fleet  goes  out, 

A  song  of  the  orient  sea ! 
We  are  the  heirs  of  its  tingling  strife, 

Its  courage  and  liberty. 
Sing  as  the  white  sails  cream  and  fill, 

And  the  foam  in  our  wake  is  long, 
Sing  till  the  headlands  black  and  grim 

Echo  us  back  our  song! 

Oh,  'tis  a  glad  and  heartsome  thing 

To  wake  ere  the  night  be  done 
And  steer  the  course  that  our  fathers  steered 

In  the  path  of  the  rising  sun. 


298  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

The  wind  and  welkin  and  wave  are  ours 

Wherever  our  bourne  is  found, 
And  we  envy  no  landsman  his  dream  and  sleep 

When  we're  off  to  the  fishing  ground. 

— Lucy  M.  Montgomery. 

From  "The  Watchman  and  Other  Poems."     Permission  of  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Co. 


THE  ANGLER'S  DELIGHT 

A  rod  in  his  hand  and  brogues  on  his  feet, 
With  waders  adorned,  and  outfit  complete, 
He  is  ready  to  fish  from  morning  till  night, 
And  who  can  compare  with  him  for  delight? 

A  fast-running  stream,  beside  birch  trees  and  firs, 
With  currents  and  pools  where  the  breeze  gently  stirs 
The  surface  to  carry  the  lure  to  the  prey, 
Which  cannot  be  seen  in  the  light  of  the  day. 

A  rise  and  a  pull,  a  tightening  line, 
A  running  of  reel,  no  words  can  define 
The  thrill  of  emotion  and  pleasure  supreme 
When  angling  is  good  from  the  banks  of  a  stream. 

The  chirping  of  birds,  the  scene  all  around 
Is  full  of  the  peace  which  there  can  be  found, 
And  the  angler,  alone,  finds  solace  and  rest 
Deep-seated  and  full  in  the  depths  of  his  breast. 

— Erskine  Houston. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


THE  STRIPED  BASS  CRANK  299 

THE  STRIPED  BASS  CRANK 

I've  been  thinking,  sadly  thinking, 

As  these  winter  evenings  pass, 
Of  my  time  and  money  wasted 

In  pursuing  striped  bass, 
For  the  cash  that  I  have  spent  on  bait 

And  tackle,  I'll  be  bound, 
I  could  buy  a  whole  fish  market 

And  put  in  a  private  pound. 

Shedder  crabs  and  bloodworms 

I've  purchased  by  the  ton; 
I've  stood  for  hours  on  the  beach, 

Been  parboiled  in  the  sun. 
I've  tramped  the  sands  in  rubber  boots 

Till  I  was  nearly  dead, 
Digging  big  holes  in  the  ocean 

With  a  four-ounce  chunk  of  lead. 

I've  fouled  and  "busted"  rod  and  reel, 

And  cast  along  the  shore 
Of  leaders,  seivels,  hooks  and  leads, 

A  million,  maybe  more. 
I've  neglected  friends  and  relatives, 

My  business,  home  and  wife, 
I've  bought  tackle  till  John  Seger 

Has  a  mortgage  on  my  life. 

And  what  have  I  to  show 

For  waste  of  energy, 
After  flirting  all  last  summer 

With  this  measly,  stingy  sea  ? 


300  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Toadfish,  skates  and  robins, 
(I  can  always  yank  them  in), 

Dog  sharks  by  the  thousand, 
But  of  stripers — not  a  fin ! 

At  night  I  dream  of  zebras, 

And  convicts  of  all  types, 
American  flags  and  barber  poles — 

Everything  with  stripes. 
I  dream  I'm  fishing  for  them  all — 

I'm  a  Jonah,  sure,  it  seems — 
It's  pretty  tough,  for  I  can't  even 

Catch  them  in  my  dreams. 

And  then  I  sit  and  listen 

For  hours  at  a  stretch, 
While  the  old-time  anglers  round  here 

Tell  of  fish  they  used  to  catch. 
One  begins  and  tells  you 

How  he  started  out  at  noon, 
And  by  six  had  eighty-seven 

Stripers  on  the  flume. 

Another  says,  "That's  nothing! 

When  the  wind  was  in  the  south, 
I  could  always  drop  a  bloodworm 

In  a  sixty-pounder's  mouth." 
I  listen  and  say  nothing — 

After  all,  they're  not  to  blame; 
When  I've  fished  as  long  as  they  have 

I  suppose  I'll  lie  the  same! 


THE  STRIPED  BASS  CRANK  301 

The  bass  ran  fine  last  summer, 

No  one  stopped  them,  you  can  bet, 
And  from  Seger's  list  I  reckon 

That  they're  running  somewhere  yet. 
It's  really  quite  pathetic 

How  we  fishermen  hope  on 
For  a  year  of  real  good  fishing, 

Like  we  had  in  seasons  gone ! 

I  have  sworn  by  all  the  gods 

That  I  will  never  fish  again; 
But  if  I'm  alive  next  summer 

It's  a  good  bet,  just  the  same, 
You'll  find  me  somewhere  on  the  beach, 

And  perhaps  you'll  hear  me  swear, 
As  I  stand  and  fish  for  hours 

For  the  bass  that  isn't  there. 

And  when  my  time  has  come 

To  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil, 
And  I  leave  behind  my  fishing  days 

And  other  care  and  toil, 
When  I  cross  the  River  Jordan, 

If  it's  rough  or  smooth  as  glass, 
I'll  be  sitting  in  the  sternsheets 

Trolling  for  a  bass. 

—Joseph  B.  Cawthorn. 

Permission  of  "Forest  and  Stream." 


302 SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

A  "RISE" 

Under  the  shadows  of  a  cliff, 

Crowned  with  a  growth  of  stately  pine, 

An  angler  moors  his  rocking  skiff 
And  o'er  the  ripples  casts  his  line. 

And  where  the  darkling  current  crawls 

Like  thistle  down  the  gay  lure  falls. 

Then  from  the  depths  a  silver  gleam 
Quick  flashes  like  a  jewel  bright, 

Up  through  the  waters  of  the  stream 
An  instant  visible  to  sight — 

As  lightning  cleaves  the  somber  sky 

A  black  bass  rises  to  the  fly. 

— Ernest  McGaffey. 

IN  SUMMER 

Behind  my  desk  I  sit  and  dream, 

The  mail  is  big,  I've  lots  to  do, 
But  on  a  distant  mountain  stream 

I  wander  with  a  split  bamboo; 
I  have  to  see  at  half  past  nine, 

A  man  of  wealth  and  hard  as  stone, 
But  I've  a  big  trout  on  the  line 

Who  rushes  madly, — Damn  that  phone. 

"What's  that?    He's  here?    Well  show  him  in." 
He's  coming,  wish  he  had  been  late. 

My  mind  at  last  was  reeling  in 

That  trout  who  fiercely  fought  his  fate. 


PISCATOR,  DON'T  BRAG  303 

My  wits  have  surely  taken  wings, 
My  thoughts  are  nothing  but  a  blur, 

How  can  I  talk  to  him  of  things 
My  mind  won't  grasp. — "Good  morning,  sir." 

"Ahem,  Aha,  I  sure  do  wish 

That  I  could  leave  this  city  heat 
With  rod  and  gun,    .    .    .    You  like  to  fish? 

Well    .    .    .    have  you  had  the  luck  to  meet 
Old  Injun  Jim  of  Squamish  Lake? 

Get  him  next  time  you  land  a  bunch. 
Let's  go  next  week? ...  All  right.  .  .  .  We'll  take 

A  month    .    .    .    By  jove,  it's  time  for  lunch." 

—Donald  C.  Kerr. 

Permission  of  "The  American  Angler." 


PISCATOR,  DON'T  BRAG! 

Wan  tarn',  mon  pere,  he  catch  a  feesh 

So  beeg  she  look  lak  whale; 
She's  mos'  so  long  as  t'ree,  four  feet, 

From  wan  end  to  her  tail. 

Mon  pere,  he  pull  zat  feesh  right  up — 

He  Ian'  her  on  ze  shore, 
An'  zen,  mon  Dieu !  she  flop  her  tail, 

An'  he  don't  see  her  some  more. 

Mon  pere,  he  brag  some  'bout  zat  feesh, 

W'en  he  go  to  ze  store, 
An'  tell  how  beeg  an'  long  she  vas — 

Bymeby  he  brag  some  more. 


304  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Till  pretty  soon  ol'  man  Brosseau 

He  laugh  an'  say,  "It's  wrong 
To  brag  much  'bout  ze  feesh  you  catch 

'Less  you  bring  zat  feesh  along." 

Mon  pere,  he's  mad,  an'  jump  up  queek, 

An'  bang  him  on  ze  head ; 
'Till  w'en  they  pick  ol'  Brosseau  up — 

By  Gar !  you  tank  he's  dead. 

Mon  p£re,  he's  go  to  jail  for  zat, 

An'  he  find  forty  dol' ; 
He's  stay  lock  up  for  wan  long  tam, 

So  he.  can't  go  feesh  at  all. 

— Maitland  LeRoy  Osborne. 

TO  A  TROUT 

Thou  solitary  tenant  of  my  creel, 

Thou  only  victim  of  my  feathered  hook, 
Though  "skunked"  I  scarce  could  more  disgusted  feel 

Wert  thou  still  swimming  in  thy  native  brook. 
For  thee  alone  I've  walked  ten  weary  miles, 

And,  what  is  worse,  must  walk  them  back  again; 
For  thee  alone  I've  crawled  through  stinging  brush 

And  clambered  over  harsh  barb-wire  stiles, 
Slept  troubled  slumber  in  the  ice-cold  rain, 

And  soaked  myself  in  grasses  all  too  lush. 

And  what  art  thou,  thou  slim  and  speckled  mite? 

Scarce  large  enough  to  save  thee  from  the  act 
That  makes  it  crime  for  five-inch  trout  to  bite, 

A  worthy  "speckled  beauty,"  for  a  fact! 


SALMON  OF  LABRADOR  305 

Where,  tell  me  where,  were  all  thy  sluggard  kind, 
That  I  could  not  inveigle  them  to  rise? 

In  all  the  summer  season  they  will  find 
No  more  persistent  fisherman  than  I, 

No  bait  more  tempting  than  my  high-priced  flies, 
Yet  thou  alone  art  here.    Dost  thou  know  why? 

And  now  my  tired  footsteps  must  I  turn 

Along  that  hilly  road  that  homewards  trends, 
And  spent  and  footsore,  bear  with  unconcern 

The  jibes  and  jeers  of  all  my  loving  friends. 
For  once  they  cast  their  scornful  eyes  on  thee, 

Thou  smallest  of  thy  kindergarten  school, 
They'll  take  a  keen  delight  to  point  me  out 

For  all  the  mocking,  scoffing  world  to  see 
As  that  weak-minded,  idiotic  fool, 

Who  fished  two  days,  and  only  caught  one  trout. 

— T.   T.  Montague. 

SALMON  OF  LABRADOR  , 
(Salmo  salar) 

By  the  wild  Canadian  shore, 
By  the  sandy  Labrador, 
By  the  rocky  Mingan  Isles, 
And  where  Anticosti  smiles, 
Numberless  the  salmon  shoals 
Gather  where  the  salt  tide  rolls. 

Rivers,  streams  of  crystal  clearness, 
Pour  through  that  far-reaching  strand, 

20 


306  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

From  the  river-mouth,  St.  Lawrence, 

To  the  coast  of  Newfoundland, 
Far  as  where  the  Belle- Isle  strait 
Opens  to  the  seas  its  gate. 

Cold,  those  rivers,  as  the  fountains 

From  the  wilderness  that  flow, 
Cold  as  waters  of  the  mountains 

Gelid  with  the  ice  and  snow. 
There  amid  the  salt  abysses, 

Or  the  river's  spring  fresh  tide, 
Gleaming,  flashing,  leaping,  diving, 

Shoals  of  lordly  salmon  glide. 

Where  the  river  of  St.  John 

Mingles  with  the  ocean  surf, 
Brown  with  weedy  rocks  and  sand-drifts, 

Green  with  bordering  velvet  turf, 
There  the  angler  with  his  tackle, 

When  the  July  suns  ride  high, 
From  the  dawning  to  the  sunset 

Goes  to  angle  with  the  fly. 

Near  thy  alder-skirted  border, 

Where  the  Rattling  Run  doth  twine, 
He  erects  his  hut  of  branches, 

Branch  of  hemlock  and  of  pine ; 
Floors  it  with  the  cedar  saplings 

Fragrant,  soft  as  couch  of  kings ; 
There  enjoys  the  forest  pleasures 

And  the  sleep  that  labor  brings. 


PROTEST  OF  THE  BROOK  TROUT   307 

Morning  with  its  dewy  freshness, 

With  its  rosy,  smiling  skies; 
Calls  him  to  the  brimming  river, 
River  of  transparent  crystal, 
Where  in  ripple  and  in  eddy, 

Or  in  pool,  to  cast  his  flies. 

— Isaac  McLellan. 

PROTEST  OF  THE  BROOK  TROUT 

I  am  Salmo  Fontinalis 

To  the  sparkling  fountain  born; 
And  my  home  is  where  oxalis, 

Heather-bell  and  rose  adorn 
The  crystal  basin  in  the  dell : 
(Undine  the  wood-nymph  knows  it  well) 
That  is  where  I  love  to  dwell. 

There  was  I  baptised  and  christened, 

'Neath  the  somber  aisles  of  oak; 
Mute  the  cascade  paused  and  listened, 

Never  a  word  the  brooklet  spoke; 
Bobolink  was  witness  then, 
Likewise  grosbeak,  linnet,  wren, 
And  the  fairies  joined,  "Amen!" 

Noted  oft  in  ancient  story, 

Erst  from  immemorial  time, 
Poets,  anglers,  hermits  hoary, 

Confirm  my  vested  rights  sublime. 
All  along  the  mountain  range 
'Tis  writ  in  living  symbols  strange : 
"Nought  shall  abrogate  or  change." 


308  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

Thus  as  Salmo  Fontinalis 

Recognized  the  wide  world  o'er, 

In  my  limpid  crystal  palace, 
Content  withal,  I  ask  no  more. 

Leaping  through  the  rainbow  spray, 

Snatching  flies  the  livelong  day, 

Nought  to  do  but  eat  and  play. 

No  fulsome  titles  do  I  covet; 

Science  holds  no  bribe  for  me ; 
Slavery  for  those  who  love  it — 

From  Nomenclature  leave  me  free! 
Yet  they  call  me  Salvelinus 
(This  a  muttered  word  between  us), 
Can  you  fancy  sin  more  heinous? 

Pity,  votaries  of  the  angle ! 

Rescue  for  the  fountain-born ! 
Better  trenchant  barb  and  fangle 

Than  livery  on  Science  worn! 
Midst  the  modest  violet's  bloom, 
Where  the  lilies  spread  perfume, 
Let  me  bide  my  speedy  doom. 

—Charles  Hallock. 

AN  ANGLER'S  GRAVE 

Sorrow,  sorrow,  bring  it  green! 

True  tears  make  the  grass  to  grow; 
And  the  grief  of  the  good,  I  ween, 

Is  grateful  to  him  that  sleeps  below. 


FISHING  309 


Strew  sweet  flowers,  free  of  blight — 

Blossoms  gathered  in  the  dew; 
Should  they  wither  before  night, 

Flowers  and  blossoms  bring  anew. 

Sorrow,  sorrow,  speed  away 

To  our  angler's  quiet  mound, 
With  the  old  pilgrim,  twilight  grey, 

Enter  thou  on  the  holy  ground ; 
There  he  sleeps,  whose  heart  was  twined 

With  wild  stream  and  wandering  burn, 
Wooer  of  the  western  wind! 

Watcher  of  the  April  morn! 

Sorrow  to  the  poor  man's  hearth! 

Sorrow  in  the  halls  of  pride ! 
Honor  waits  at  the  grave  of  worth 

And  high  and  low  stand  side  by  side. 
Brother  angler,  slumber  on, 

Haply  thou  shalt  wave  the  wand, 
When  the  tide  of  time  is  gone, 

In  some  far  and  happier  land. 

—Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


FISHING 

It  isn't  laziness  at  all, 

Whatever  women  say ; 
Why  don't  we  have  it  in  the  fall, 

Instead  of  only  May  ? 


310  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

It's  only  in  the  Spring  you  feel 

This  yearning  and  desire 
For  tree  and  trail,  for  rod  and  reel, 

A  blanket  and  a  fire. 

It  isn't  laziness  that  gives 

The  sun  a  velvet  touch, 
That  finds  a  fellow  where  he  lives 

And  labors  overmuch, 
That  finds  him,  be  it  boulevard 

Or  tenement  of  gray, 
And  pulls  his  heart,  and  pulls  it  hard, 

To  woodlands  far  away. 

It  isn't  laziness  that  makes 

You  get  your  tackle  out 
And  dream  of  muskies  in  the  lakes 

Or  brooks  of  speckled  trout, 
Of  paths  beside  the  river's  rim, 

Adventures  of  delight 
While  still  the  westward  sky  is  dim 

With  memories  of  night. 

It  isn't  laziness — but  just 

The  Man-Heart,  good  and  clean, 
Grown  weary  of  the  world  of  dust 

And  longing  for  the  green — 
It's  just  the  man  inside  of  you 

That  hears  the  forest  call, 
The  love  of  woods  and  skies  of  blue, 

That  man  loved  first  of  all ! 

— Douglas  Malloch. 


OUR  BIGGEST  FISH 311 

WHEN  THE  FISHIN'  POLE  IS  NODDIN* 

Through  the  scented  woodland,  far  away  from  town, 
Rest  in  the  world,  and  you  will  win  it; 

The  cork's  a-goin'  down,  boys,  the  cork's  a-goin'  down, 
For  the  fishin'  pole's  a-noddin'  every  minute! 

Wish  time, 
And  fish  time; 
Don't  call  me  back  to  town, 

Fishin'  pole's  a-noddin', 
An'  the  cork's  a-goin'  down ! 

I  hear  the  far-off  tinkle  of  drowsy  cattle-bells, 
The  river  keeps  the  oak's  cool  shadow  in  it ; 

To  the  trouble  of  the  city  I  am  waftin'  my  farewells, 
For  the  fishin'  pole's  a-noddin'  every  minute! 

Beams  here 
And  dreams  here — 
Don't  call  me  back  to  town, 

Fishin'  pole's  a-noddin', 
An'  the  cork's  a-goin'  down ! 

— Frank  L.  Stanton. 

Printed  in  and  permission  from  "The  Atlanta  Constitution." 


OUR  BIGGEST  FISH 

When  in  the  halcyon  days  of  eld,  I  was  a  little  tyke, 
I  used  to  fish  in  pickerel  ponds  for  minnows  and  the  like ; 
And  oh,  the  bitter  sadness  with  which  my  soul  was 
fraught 


312  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

When  I  rambled  home  at  night  with  the  puny  string 

I'd  caught! 

And,  oh,  the  indignation  and  the  valor  I'd  display 
When  I  claimed  that  all  the  biggest  fish  I'd  caught  had 

got  away! 

Sometimes   it  was  the  rusty  hooks,   sometimes  the 

fragile  lines, 
And  many  times  the  treacherous  reeds  would  foil  my 

just  designs; 
But  whether  hooks  or  lines  or  reeds  were  actually  to 

blame, 

I  kept  right  on  at  losing  all  the  monsters  just  the  same — 
I  never  lost  a  little  fish — yes,  I  am  free  to  say 
It  always  was  the  biggest  fish  I  caught  that  got  away. 

And  so  it  was,  when  later  on,  I  felt  ambition  pass 
From  callow  minnow  joys  to  nobler  greed  for  pike  and 

bass; 
I  found  it  quite  convenient,  when  the  beauties  wouldn't 

bite 
And  I  returned  all  bootless  from  the  watery  chase  at 

night, 

To  feign  a  cheery  aspect  and  recount  in  accents  gay 
How  the  biggest  fish  that  I  had  caught  had  somehow 

got  away. 

And  really,  fish  look  bigger  than  they  are  before  they're 

caught — 
When  the  pole  is  bent  into  a  bow  and  the  slender  line 

is  taut, 


OUR  BIGGEST  FISH  313 

When  a  fellow  feels  his  heart  rise  up  like  a  doughnut 

in  his  throat 

And  he  lunges  in  a  frenzy  up  and  down  the  leaky  boat ! 
Oh,  you  who've  been  a-fishing  will  indorse  me  when  I 

say 
That  it  always  is  the  biggest  fish  you  catch  that  gets 

away! 

Tis  even  so  in  other  things — yes,  in  our  greedy  eyes 
The  biggest  boon  is  some  elusive,  never-captured  prize ; 
We  angle  for  the  honors  and  the  sweets  of  human  life — 
Like  fishermen  we  brave  the  seas  that  roll  in  endless 

strife ; 
And  then  at  last,  when  all  is  done  and  we  are  spent 

and  gray, 
We  own  the  biggest  fish  we've  caught  are  those  that 

got  away. 

I  would  not  have  it  otherwise;  'tis  better  there  should  be 
Much  bigger  fish  than  I  have  caught  a-swimming  in 

the  sea; 
For  now  some  worthier  one  than  I  may  angle  for  that 

game — 
May  by  his  arts  entice,  entrap,  and  comprehend  the 

same; 
Which,  having  done,  perchance  he'll  bless  the  man 

who's  proud  to  say 
That  the  biggest  fish  he  ever  caught  were  those  that 

got  away. 

— Eugene  Field. 

From  "Poems  of  Eugene  Field."    Copyright,  1910,  by  Julia  S.  Field.  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


314  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

THE  FISHING-PARTY 

Wunst  we  went  a-fishin' — Me 
An'  my  Pa  an'  Ma,  all  three, 
When  they  wuz  a  picnic,  'way 
Out  to  Hanch's  Woods,  one  day. 

An'  they  wuz  a  crick  out  there, 
Where  the  fishes  is,  an'  where 
Little  boys  'taint  big  an'  strong 
Better  have  their  folks  along ! 

My  Pa  he  ist  fished  an'  fished ! 
An'  my  Ma  she  said  she  wished 
Me  an'  her  wuz  home;  an'  Pa 
Said  he  wished  so  worse'n  Ma. 

Pa  said  ef  you  talk,  er  say 
Anything,  er  sneeze,  er  play, 
Hain't  no  fish  alive  er  dead, 
Ever  go'  to  bite!  he  said. 

Purt'  nigh  dark  in  town  when  we 
Got  back  home;  an'  Ma,  says  she, 
Now  she'll  have  a  fish  fer  shore! 
An'  she  buyed  one  at  the  store. 

Nen  at  supper,  Pa  he  won't 
Eat  no  fish,  an'  says  he  don't 
Like  'em. — An'  he  pounded  me 
When  I  choked!  .  .  .  Ma,  didn't  he? 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

From  the  Biographical  Edition  of  the  Complete  Works  of  James  Whitcomb 
Riley.  Copyright,  1913.  Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The 
Bobbs-Merrill  Co. 


THE  FISHING  CURE  315 


THE  FISHING  CURE 

There's  nothing  that  builds  up  a  toil-weary  soul 

Like  a  day  on  a  stream, 
Back  on  the  banks  of  the  old  fishing  hole 

Where  a  fellow  can  dream. 
There's  nothing  so  good  for  a  man  as  to  flee 

From  the  city  and  lie 
Full  length  in  the  shade  of  a  whispering  tree 

And  gaze  at  the  sky. 


Out  there  where  the  strife  and  the  greed  are  forgot 

And  the  struggle  for  pelf, 
A  man  can  get  rid  of  each  taint  and  each  spot 

And  clean  up  himself; 
He  can  be  what  he  wanted  to  be  when  a  boy, 

If  only  in  dreams; 
And  revel  once  more  in  the  depths  of  a  joy 

That's  as  real  as  it  seems. 


The  things  that  he  hates  never  follow  him  there — 

The  jar  of  the  street, 
The  rivalries  petty,  the  struggling  unfair — 

For  the  open  is  sweet. 
In  purity's  realm  he  can  rest  and  be  clean, 

Be  he  humble  or  great, 
And  as  peaceful  his  soul  may  become  as  the  scene 

That  his  eyes  contemplate. 


316  SONGS  FOR  FISHERMEN 

It  is  good  for  the  world  that  men  hunger  to  go 

To  the  banks  of  a  stream, 
And  weary  of  sham  and  of  pomp  and  of  show 

They  have  somewhere  to  dream. 
For  this  life  would  be  dreary  and  sordid  and  base 

Did  they  not  now  and  then 
Seek  refreshment  and  calm  in  God's  wide,  open  space 

And  come  back  to  be  men. 

— Edgar  A.  Guest. 

From  "A  Heap  o'  Livin'."     Copyrighted  by  and  permission  from  Reilly 
&  Lee  Co. 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 

ADAMS,  ST.  CLAIR.     Born  in  Arkansas,  1883.     Literary  and  editorial  work. 

Fishermen  Three,  59;  Fishing  Lines,  166;  Modern  Sport,  144;  On  the  Hook,  242. 
AIKEN,  FRANCIS.    The  Song  of  the  Running  Reel,  241. 
ALLEN,  JAMES  ROBERT.     When  a  Bass  Gets  on  My  Line,  94. 
ANONYMOUS.    An  Old  Song,  194;  Just  a  Chance— That's  All,  243;  The  Ballade 

of  the  Bass,  232;  The  First  Worm,  222;  They  Went  A-Fishing,  145. 
APPLETON,  JACK.      Born  at   Charleston,  W.   Va.,    1872.     Newspaper  man, 

miscellaneous  writer,  and  poet.    Poor  Feeshl  51. 

BANGS,  JOHN  KENDRICK.  Born  at  Yonkers,  N.  Y.,  1862;  died  1921.  Humor- 
ist, poet,  lecturer,  editorial  staff  of  various  magazines.  Fishin',  44;  In  Trouting 
Time,  130. 

BASSE,  WILLIAM.  Died  about  1653.  English  poet,  best  known  for  his  "Epitaph 
on  Shakespeare."  The  Angler's  Song,  295. 

BLAKEY,  ROBERT.  Born  at  Morpeth,  Northumberland,  Eng.,  1795;  died 
1878.  Philosopher  and  miscellaneous  writer.  Saint  Patrick,  285. 

BRACKEN,  CHARLES  H.    An  Appeal  from  Our  Finny  Friends,  206. 

BREWER,  ALLEN  F.      The  Song  of  the  Rod  and  Reel,  123. 

BRIDGES,  ROBERT.  Born  1844.  English  physician,  critic,  scholar,  and  poet; 
appointed  to  the  laureateship,  1913.  Summer  on  Thames,  158. 

BROOKE,  RUPERT.  Born  1887;  died  1915.  English  poet  and  soldier;  died 
in  the  World  War.  The  Fish,  141. 

BROWN,  L.  F.  Born  at  Wheatland,  Mich.,  1849.  Lawyer  and  in  railroad  busi- 
ness; writer  of  many  articles  on  angling.  The  Angler's  Dream  of  Spring,  58. 

BROWNE,  FRANCIS  F.  Born  at  South  Halifax,  Vt.,  1843;  died  1913.  Editor 
of  "The  Dial"  from  1880  until  his  death.  Author  of  many  books  and  com- 
pilations. The  Wicked  Fisherman,  124. 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM.  Born  at  Tavistock,  Devonshire,  Eng.,  1591;  died  about 
1643.  His  best  known  book  of  verse  is  "Britannia's  Pastorals."  Worm- 
Fishing,  227. 

BUCKHAM,  JOHN.     My  Best  Kentucky  Reel,  60. 

BUNYAN,  JOHN.  Born  at  Elstow,  Eng.,  1628;  died  at  London,  1688.  A  tinker 
by  trade;  in  jail  as  nonconformist  preacher,  1660-1672;  author  of  "Pilgrim's 
Progress."  The  Ways  of  the  Fisherman,  119. 

BURT,  MAXWELL  STRUTHERS.  Born  at  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  1882.  Edu- 
cated at  Princeton  and  Oxford.  Reporter;  instructor  in  English;  now  in 
cattle-ranching  business  in  Wyoming.  One  of  the  leading  short-story  writers 
of  to-day.  Fishing,  71. 

CARRYL,  GUY  WETMORE.  Born  in  New  York  City,  1873;  died  1904.  Gradu- 
ated at  Columbia  University,  1895;  editor  of  "Munsey's  Magazine,"  1895-96; 
abroad  as  literary  representative  of  several  American  publications,  1897-1902. 
Had  an  extraordinary  ability  at  punning.  Fate  of  the  Fatuous  Fisherman,  287. 

CAWEIN,  MADISON.  Born  at  Louisville,  Ky.,  1865;  died  1914.  Published  an 
enormous  amount  of  verse,  much  of  it  dealing  with  nature.  Called  by  some 
"the  Keats  of  Kentucky."  The  Speckled  Trout,  148. 

CAWTHORNE,  JOSEPH  B.  Born  at  New  York  City,  1869.  Actor  and  musical 
comedy  star.  The  Striped  Bass  Crank,  299. 

CHALMERS,  PATRICK.  A  present-day  English  writer  and  editor;  author  of 
"Green  Days  and  Blue  Days"  and  "Pipes  and  Tabors."  The  First  Fisherman, 
113;  The  Unattainable,  212;  To  an  Old  Friend,  66. 

CHATTO,  WILLIAM  ANDREW.  Born  at  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  Eng.,  1799;  died 
1864.  First  followed  a  business  career,  which  he  relinquished  in  1834  to  de- 
vote himself  to  fishing,  sports,  and  miscellaneous  writing.  The  Fisher's 
Call,  207. 

CLARKE,  FREDERICK  COLBURN.    The  Old  Home  Haunts,  201. 

317 


318  INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 

COCHRANE,  ALFRED.  Born  in  England,  1865;  educated  at  Oxford;  author 
of  many  articles  and  poems  in  magazines  and  newspapers.  Fresh  Run.  56 

CONNOLLY,   DANIEL.      Trout  Fishing,   270. 

COTTON,  CHARLES.  Born  at  Beresford,  Staffordshire,  Eng.,  1630;  died  at 
Westminster,  1687.  Translator  of  Montaigne's  "Essays";  enjoyed  a  long 
friendship  with  Izaak  Walton;  wrote  the  second  part  of  "The  Compleat 
Angler."  The  Angler's  Ballad,  68;  The  Honest  Angler,  99;  To  My  Dear  and 
Most  Worthy  Friend,  Mr.  Izaak  Walton,  262. 

COWPER,  WILLIAM.  Born  at  Great  Berkhampstead,  Hertfordshire,  Eng, 
1731;  died  at  East  Dereham,  Norfolk,  1800.  Afflicted  early  with  melancholia 
and  suicidal  mania,  and  insane  the  last  years  of  his  life.  "The  Task"  is  his 
best  known  poem.  To  the  Immortal  Memory  of  the  Halibut  on  Which  I  Dined 
This  Day,  83. 

CRANDALL,  CHARLES  H.  Born  at  Greenwich,  N.  Y.,  1858.  Has  followed 
mercantile  pursuits;  been  a  reporter,  correspondent,  and  editor.  The  Call 
of  the  Stream,  154. 

GUSHING,  PERCY  M.    The  Clam  Man,  235. 

DEAN,  HARRY  M.    Just  Keep  Fishin',  157. 

DENNYS,  JOHN.     Born  at  London,  1657;  died  1734.     Critic  and  playwright; 

incurred  the  enmity  of  Pope,  who  ridiculed  him  in  the  "Dunciad."     The 

Angler's  Delectation,  146. 

DEXTER,  CHARLES.     The  Angler's  Song.  276. 
DONNE,  JOHN.    Born  at  London,  1573;  died  1631.    Won  the  favor  of  James  1., 

1610;  took  holy  orders,  1615;  appointed  to  the  deanery  of  St.  Paul's,  1621. 

One  of  Walton's  personal  friends.    His  poetry  is  characterized  by  extravagant 

figures  and  far-fetched  conceits.      The  Bait,  91. 
DOUBLED  AY,  THOMAS.     Born  at  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  Eng.,  1790;  died  1870. 

Poet,  dramatist,  biographer,  radical  politician,  political  economist.     He  was 

a  laborious  student  and  worked  in  almost  every  field  of  literature.    Angling, 

74;  The  Fisher's  Welcome,  214. 
DOUGLAS,  GEORGE.     To  My  Trout  Rod,  105. 
DRAYTON,  MICHAEL.     Born  at  Hartshill,  Warwickshire,  Eng.,  1563;  died  at 

London,  1631.     Buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  his  epitaph  probably  having 

been  written  by  Ben  Jonson.    He  wrote  a  number  of  books  of  poetry.    The 

Fisherman,   194. 

DUBLIN,  FAYETTE.     The  Winding  Stream,  131. 
DUNBAR,  PAUL  LAWRENCE.     Born  at  Dayton,  Ohio,  1872;  died  there,  1906. 

Negro  poet.    Darky's  Rainy  Day,  38. 

ELLIOTT,  WILLIAM  E.  Born  at  Beaufort,  S.  C.,  1788;  died  there,  1863.  En- 
tered Harvard  at  18,  but  left  on  account  of  ill  health.  Member  of  S.  C.  Senate, 
1832;  retired  to  his  farm  and  wrote  of  agricultural  pursuits  and  rural  sports. 
A  well-known  writer  in  angling  literature.  The  Old  Angler's  Dream,  184. 

FIELD,  EUGENE.  Born  at  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  1850;  died  1895.  Journalist  and  poet; 
especially  known  for  his  poems  of  childhood.  Our  Biggest  Fish,  311;  The 
Fisherman's  Feast,  33. 

FISHER,  JOHN  W.,  JR.    Angling,  78. 

FLETCHER,  PHINEAS.  Born  at  Cranbrook,  Kent,  Eng.,  1582;  died  about 
1650.  "The  Purple  Island"  is  his  best  known  work.  The  Angler's  Content- 
ment, 291;  The  Fisher's  Joys,  292. 

FLOUD,  JOHN.  One  of  Izaak  Walton's  contemporaries.  The  poem  appearing 
in  this  book  was  inserted  in  the  second  edition  of  "The  Compleat  Angler," 
published  in  1655.  To  My  Dear  Brother  Izaak  Walton,  263. 

FOLEY,  JAMES  W.  Born  at  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  1874.  Newspaper  man,  lecturer, 
and  poet.  The  Lad  and  the  Dad,  36. 

FOSTER,  W.  A.  Born  1801;  died  1862.  The  Angler's  Carol,  89;  The  Bonny  Tweed 
for  Me!  223;  The  Salmon  Run,  161. 

GAY,  JOHN.  Born  at  Barnstaple,  Eng.,  1685;  died  at  London,  1732.  "The  Beg- 
gar's Opera"  is  his  most  widely  known  work.  Fishing,  114. 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 319 

GETCHELL,  FREDERICK.    My  Lady  Fishes,  185. 

OILMAN,  C.  L.    Contributor  of  verse  to  various  American  periodicals  of  the  day. 

A  Rhyme  of  Little  Fishes,  146. 
GREENWOOD,  W.  HAMAR.    Born  at  Whitby,  Ontario,  Canada,  1870.    Received 

B.  A.  degree  from  Toronto  University;  served  in  the  World  War.    The  Salmon 

Fisherman,    255. 
GUEST,  EDGAR  A.     Born  at  Birmingham,  Eng.,  1881;  brought  to  the  United 

States  by  his  parents,  1891.    His  daily  syndicated  poems  are  used  by  several 

hundred  newspapers.     A   Boy  and  His  Dad,  81;  Fishing  Nooks,   217;  Out 

Fishin',  24;  The  Fisherman,  133;  The  Fishing  Cure,  315;  The  Fishing  Outfit, 

260;    The    Real    Bait,    178. 

HALLOCK,  CHARLES.  Born  at  New  York  City,  1834;  died  at  Washington, 
D.  C.,  1917.  Journalist,  author,  and  naturalist.  Editor  of  a  number  of  papers; 
founder  of  "Forest  and  Stream";  founded  International  Association  for  the 
Protection  of  Game,  1874;  formulated  uniform  game  laws,  known  as  the  "Hal- 
lock  Code,"  which  were  used  as  the  basis  of  legislation  in  many  states.  Author 
of  17  books  on  varied  subjects;  several  of  his  works  are  angling  classics.  Pro- 
test of  the  Brook  Trout,  307. 

HAWES,  WILLIAM  POST.  Born  at  New  York  City,  1803;  died  there,  1842. 
Graduated  from  Columbia;  admitted  to  the  bar,  1824;  contributed  freely 
to  the  periodical  press  of  his  day.  The  Long  Island  Trout,  55. 

HILLEL,  CLAUDE.    Fish  Is  Coin'  to  Bite,  218. 

HOGG,  JAMES.  Born  in  Selkirkshire,  Scotland,  1770;  died  at  Eltrive  Lake, 
1835.  A  well-known  poet  of  his  day;  called  the  "Ettrick  Shepherd"  from  his 
occupation.  A  Boy's  Song,  198. 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL.  Born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  1809;  died  there, 
1894.  Physician,  professor  of  anatomy,  essayist,  novelist,  and  poet.  The 
Ballad  of  the  Oysterman,  292 ;  Verses  for  After-Dinner,  266. 

HOOD,  THOMAS.  Born  at  London,  1799;  died  there,  1845.  Editor,  humorist, 
and  poet.  The  Angler's  Farewell,  150. 

HOUSTON,  ERSKINE.    The  Angler's  Delight,  298;  The  Angler's  Possessions,  170. 

HUNDLEY,  WILLIAM  E.    Sport  Royal,  99. 

HUNT,  LEIGH.  Born  at  Southgate,  Eng.,  1784;  died  at  Putney,  1859.  Im- 
prisoned for  his  radical  political  views.  Poet  and  essayist.  Fish,  113. 

ISYS,  COTSWOLD.  A  well-known  English  fisherman,  who  prefers  to  write 
under  this  pseudonym.  Hampshire  Fly-Fishing,  101;  North  Country  Fly- 
Fishing,  103;  The  Coachman,  134;  The  Music  of  the  Reel,  48;  The  Salmon,  279; 
The  Trout,  230. 

JAMES,  D.  L.    Izaak  Walton's  Prayer.  139. 

JEFFRIES,  NORMAN.     Ketchin'  Pick'rel,  106;  The  Angler's  Toast,  283. 

JOHNSON,  W.  H.     The  Inveterate  Angler,   191. 

JUDD,  C.  J.    A  Fisherman's  Petition,  79. 

KEATS,  JOHN.  Born  at  London,  1795;  died  at  Rome,  1821.  Druggist  and  medi- 
cal student  from  1811  to  1817.  Failing  health  took  him  to  Italy  in  1820. 
Watching  the  Minnows,  270. 

KEENE,  J.  HARRINGTON.  A  well-known  writer  on  angling  subjects.  The 
Salmon  Fly,  92. 

KERR,  DONALD  C.    In  Summer,  302. 

KINGSFORD,  M.  A.    King  of  the  Brook,  137. 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES.  Born  at  Holne,  Devonshire,  Eng.,  1819;  died  at 
Eversley,  Hampshire,  1875.  Professor,  clergyman,  novelist,  and  poet.  The 
Angler's  Question,  26;  The  Invitation,  121;  The  Three  Fishers,  86 

LANG,  ANDREW.  Born  at  Selkirk,  Scotland,  1844;  died  at  Banchory,  Kin- 
cardineshire,  1912.  Writer  and  translator  of  a  great  variety  of  books.  April 
on  Tweed,  128;  The  Last  Cast,  264. 

LEGGO,  ED.    To  the  Occasional  Angler,  75. 


320 INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 

LINCOLN,  ROBERT  PAGE.  Born  in  Minnesota.  One  of  the  most  widely 
known  of  present-day  writers  on  out-of-doors  subjects.  Robert  Davis  says 
of  him,  "Mr.  Lincoln  has  a  rare  familiarity  with  everything  that  swims,  and 
flies,  and  walks."  An  Angler's  Sonnet,  286;  Fishin'  Time,  152;  The  Angler's 
Awakening,  203. 

McCREA,  JOHN  R.  Born  in  Canada,  1872;  died  1918.  Physician,  soldier,  and 
poet.  A  Change  of  Bait,  54. 

McGAFFEY,  ERNEST.  Born  in  the  United  States;  practised  law  in  Chicago; 
now  resides  in  Victoria,  British  Columbia.  An  ardent  fisherman;  well-known 
writer  of  angling  articles;  author  of  two  books  of  out-of-doors  verse.  A  "Rise," 
302;  Fishing,  196;  The  Brook  Trout,  221. 

MACKIE,  ALEXANDER.  Born  in  England,  1855;  died  1915.  Author  of 
"The  Art  of  Worm-Fishing,  A  Practical  Treatise  on  Clear- Water  Worming." 
The  Blue-Nosed  Worm,  67. 

McLELLAN,  ISAAC.  Born  at  Portland,  Me.,  1806;  died  1899.  Attended  Bowdoin 
College  where  he  was  one  class  below  Longfellow.  Practised  law  in  Boston 
several  years;  editor  in  Boston  for  some  years;  spent  two  years  in  Europe. 
Upon  his  return  to  America  he  withdrew  to  rural  life,  spending  most  of  his 
time  hunting  and  fishing.  Moved  to  New  York  City  about  1850.  Longfellow 
was  his  life-long  friend;  and  among  his  angling  companions  was  the  famous 
"Frank  Forester."  He  is  one  of  the  few  writers  on  sports  who  possesses  literary 
ability  combined  with  accurate  observations  of  nature.  Black-Bass-Fishing 
in  Western  Streams,  192;  Eel-Spearing  by  Torchlight,  284;  Salmon  of  Labrador, 
305;  The  Angler's  Chant,  47;  The  Blue  fish,  240;  The  Boy  Angler,  97;  The  Old  Mill 
by  the  River,  277;  The  Pompano  of  Florida,  219;  The  Striped  Bass,  225;  When 
This  Old  Rod  Was  New,  159. 

MALLOCH,  DOUGLAS.  Born  at  Muskegon,  Mich.,  1877.  Newspaper  man, 
editor,  and  lecturer.  Interested  in  sports  and  nature,  and  called  "The  Poet 
of  the  Woods."  Fishing,  309;  Michigan  Again,  238;  Spring  Fever,  120;  The 
Fishermen  Mend  Their  Nets,  78;  The  Fishing  Hole,  41;  The  Trout  Season 
Widow,  173. 

MASON,  WALT.  Born  at  Columbus,  Ontario,  Canada,  1862.  Came  to  the  United 
States,  1880;  connected  with  various  newspapers;  has  a  daily  prose  poem  syn- 
dicated in  several  hundred  papers.  Fishing,  80;  King  and  Kid,  193;  The:JDying 
Fisherman,  42. 

MATHER,  FRED.  Born  at  Greenbush,  N.  Y.,  1833;  died  at  Lake  Nebagomain, 
Wis.,  1900.  Served  in  the  Civil  and  Spanish  Wars;  assistant  U.  S.  fish  com- 
missioner, 1873-77;  editor  of  the  fish  department  of  "Forest  and  Stream" 
up  to  the  time  of  his  death.  A  fish  culturist  of  renown;  made  deep  study  of 
the  propagation  of  fish;  invented  hatching  cone  for  shad  and  other  apparatus; 
wrote  two  excellent  angling  books,  "My  Angling  Friends"  and  "Men  I  Have 
Fished  With."  The  Big-Mouth  Black  Bass,  259;  The  Small-Mouth  Black 
Bass.  258. 

MITCHELL,  LALIA.     Fishing,   197. 

MONTAGUE,  T.  T.    To  a  Trout,  304. 

MONTGOMERY,  LUCY  M.  Born  1874.  Canadian  novelist  and  poet.  Off  to 
the  Fishing  Ground,  297;  When  the  Fishin&Boats  Go  Out,  87. 

MOODIE,  SUSANNA.  Canadian  writer  and  poet.  Best  known  for  her  books, 
"Life  on  the  Clearings  Versus  the  Bush"  and  "Roughing  It  in  the  Bush" 
(1852).  The  Fisherman's  Light,  167- 

MORRIS,  JOSEPH.  Born  in  Ohio,  1889.  College  teacher;  editorial  work  since 
1917.  Fish  Stories,  84;  Spring  Is  on  the  Wire,  180. 

NAIDU,    SAROJINI.      Born    1879.      A    woman    poet    of    India.     Coromandel 
NEWBERRY,  ROBERT  THORNE.    Rondeau,  125. 

O'BRIEN,  FITZ-JAMES.  Born  in  Limerick,  Ireland,  1828;  died  at  Cumber- 
land, Md.,  1862.  Came  to  the  United  States,  1852;  soldier  in  the  Civil  War. 
Journalist,  shorty-story  writer,  and  poet.  By  the  Stream,  188. 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 321 

O'CONNELL,  DANIEL.    My  Favorite  Book,  62. 
OSBORNE,  MAITLAND  LEROY.    Piscator,  Don't  Bragl  303. 

PARKER,  SAM.    A  Fisher  Once  Was  /,  200. 

PECK,  P.  S.    Fishin'  Time,  268. 

PHILLIPS,  HENRY.    Good  Fishing,  119. 

POPE,  ALEXANDER.     Born  at  London,   1688;  died  at  Twickenham,   1744. 

A  writer  of  "correct  verse";  a  master  of  the  rhyming  couplet;  but  lacking  in 

poetic  fervor  and  imagination.     Angling,  248. 
PRAED,  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH.    Born  at  London,  1802;  died  there,  1839. 

Educated  at  Eton  and  Cambridge;  member  of  Parliament;  one  of  the  writers 

of  society  verse.    Fishing  Is  Fine  When  the  Pool  Is  Muddy,  159. 
PUTNAM,  FRANK.    An  American  newspaper  man.    Fishing  Song,  205. 

RICE,  GRANTLAND.  Born  at  Nashville,  Tenn.,  1880.  Attended  Vanderbilt 
University;  one  of  the  best  known  sporting  writers  in  America;  his  column, 
"The  Sportlight,"  is  widely  syndicated.  Ballade  of  the  Gamefish,  43. 

RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB.  Born  at  Greenfield,  Ind.,  1849;  died  at  Indian- 
apolis, 1916.  Public  school  education;  received  honorary  degrees  from  several 
universities;  called  the  "People's  Laureate"  because  of  the  wide  popularity 
of  his  poetry.  At  Broad  Ripple,  26;  Down  Around  the  River,  136;  The  Fishing- 
Party,  314;  Up  and  Down  Old  Brandy-wine,  109. 

ROSE,  RAY  CLARKE.    Keep  Fishin',  256;  With  Rod  and  Reel,  183. 

ROSS,  ROBERT  ERSKINE.     The  Hidden  Pool,  140. 

SAGE,  DEAN.    Salmon,  85. 

SCOLLARD,  CLINTON.    Born  at  Clinton,  N.  Y.,  1860.    A  well-known  modern 

poet;  author  of  many  books  of  verse.     The  Angler,  253;  The  Fisherman,  190. 
SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER.     Born  at  Edinburgh,  1771;  died  at  Abbotsford,  1832. 

Novelist  and  poet.    On  Ettrick  Forest's  Mountains  Dun,  186. 
SEARS,  GEORGE  W.     Died   at   Williamsport,   W.   Va.t    1890;   conductor  of 

angling   departments  in  magazines;   a  literary   recluse  who  lived  close  to 

nature;  a  great  deal  of  splendid  nature  verse  in  his  book  "Forest  Runes." 

That  Trout,  249. 
SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM.     Born  at  Stratford  on  Avon,  1564;  died  there, 

1616.     Dramatist  and  poet.     Give  Me  Mine  Angle,  64;  How  Men  Live,  65; 

The  Pleasant' st  Angling,  64. 

SHARPE,  THEODORE.     The  Conundrum  of  the  Ages,  90. 
SHAW,  T.  R.    Fishin'  with  an  Old  Bamboo,  275. 
SHEA,  JOHN  CHARLES.    /  Want  to  Go  Fishing  To-Day,  139. 
SIMMONS,  WILLIAM  E.     One  of  the  best  known  of  modern  anglers.     Early 

youth  spent  in  South  Carolina;  last  thirty  years  a  New  York  newspaper  man. 

"The  Colonel,"  as  he  is  known  among  his  angling  companions,  is  said  to  be 

the  first  angler  to  catch  shad  on  Long  Island  with  an  angle  worm.    He  has  had 

sixty  years'  angling  experience.    Channel  Bass  Fishing,  237. 
SMITH,  D.  G.    We've  All  Seen  Him,  199. 
SMOLLETT,  TOBIAS.     Born  at  Dalquhurn,  Dumbartonshire,  Scotland;  died 

at  Antignano,  near  Leghorn,  Italy,  1771.    Novelist  and  miscellaneous  writer. 

Leven   Water,   258. 
SOMMERVILLE,  WILLIAM.    Born  at  Edstone,  Warwickshire,  Eng.,  1675;  died 

there,  1742.    Educated  at  Winchester  and  Oxford.    Writer  of  verse.    Fishing, 

189. 
STAFF,  GEORGE  B.    Contributor  of  angling  verse  to  present-day  magazines. 

Fly  Casting,  168;  Where  the  Redeyes  Bite,  177. 
STANTON,  FRANK  L.     Born  at  Charleston,  S.  C.,  1857.     Identified  with  the 

American  press  for  years,  especially  with  the  "Atlanta  Constitution,"  in  which 

his  poems  have  been  a  feature,  and  have  won  for  ,him  a  wide  reputation.    A 

Fisherman  in  Town,  179;  On  a  River  Bank  So  Green,  35;  What  Bothers  Him, 

192;  When  Jenny  Come  Along,  84;  When  the  Fishin'  Pole  Is  Noddin',  311. 
STINSON,  SAM  S.    American  writer.     After  14  years  of  daily  newspaper  work, 

he  became  a  free  lance  writer  in  1904,  contributing  to  the  comic  weeklies  and 

fiction  magazines.     Has  issued  two  books  of  verse.     Ballade  of  the  False  and 

the  True,  281;  When  the  Fish  Begin  to  Bite,  156, 

21 


322  INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 

STODDART,  THOMAS  TOD.  Born  in  Edinburgh,  1810;  died  1880.  An  ex- 
ample of  a  man  who  devoted  his  entire  life  to  angling.  Once  upon  being  asked 
what  his  occupation  was,  he  answered,  "I  am  an  angler,  Sir."  He  was  a  very 
expert  fisherman,  having  a  great  delicacy  of  wrist,  and  a  wonderful  knowledge 
of  the  habits  and  haunts  of  fish.  He  is  one  of  the  outstanding  figures  in  angling 
and  angling  literature,  and  his  book  upon  Scottish  streams  is  a  standard  in 
accuracy,  and  second  only  to  Walton's  in  catching  the  pleasures  of  fishing. 
His  books  are:  "The  Angler's  Companion  to  the  Rivers  and  Lakes  of  Scotland," 
"Angling  Songs,"  and  "An  Angler's  Rambles  and  Angling  Songs."  An  Angler's 
Grave,  308;  Bring  the  Rod,  the  Line,  the  Reel!  274;  Song,  132;  The  Angler's 
Benediction,  96;  The  Angler's  Invitation,  23;  The  Angler's  Try  sting-Tree,  58; 
The  Angler's  Vindication,  259;  The  Bonnie  Tweed,  228;  The  Happy  Angler, 
129;  The  Holy-Well  Pool,  164;  The  River,  172;  The  Sea-Trout  Grey,  239;  The 
Taking  of  the  Salmon,  246;  The  Yellow  Fins  o'  Yarrow,  216;  Trolling  Song, 
65;  Ye  Warders  of  the  Waters,  208. 

STREET,  ALFRED  BILLINGS.  Born  at  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  1811;  died  1881. 
Early  writer  of  out-doors  sports;  editor;  State  librarian  the  last  half  of  his 
life.  Spearing,  168. 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED.     Born  at  Somersby,  Lincolnshire,  Eng.,  1809;  died  at 

Aldworth   House,   near   Haslemere,   Surrey,    1892.      Became  poet   laureate, 

1850;  raised  to  the  peerage,  1884.     The  Brook,  125. 
THOMPSON,  MAURICE.     Born  at  Fairfield,  Ind.,  1844;  died  1901.     Lawyer, 

editor,  and  author.    Ho,  for  the  Kankakee!  234. 
THOMSON,  JAMES.    Born  at  Ednam,  Roxburghshire,  Scotland,  1700;  died  near 

Richmond,    Eng.,    1748.      Best   known   as   the    author  of    "The   Seasons." 

TROWBFUDGE,  JOHN  TOWNSEND.  Born  at  Ogden,  N.  Y.,  1827;  died  1916. 
Novelist,  juvenile  writer,  and  poet.  Tr outing,  250. 

VAN  de  WATER,  FREDERIC  F.  Born  at  Pompton  Lakes,  N.  J.,  1890.  Attended 
New  York  University  and  Columbia.  Reporter,  special  writer,  and  night 
city  editor  of  the  "New  York  Tribune."  Interests  mainly  in  tramping,  rid- 
ing, fishing,  and  canoeing.  Fishing,  289. 

VAN  DYKE,  HENRY.  Born  at  Germantown,  Pa.,  1852.  Preacher,  essayist, 
poet,  and  diplomat.  Has  written  some  of  the  best  books  in  modern  angling 
literature.  The  Angler's  Reveille,  28;  When  Tulips  Bloom,  126. 

WADE,  BLANCHE  ELIZABETH.  Frequent  contributor  of  poetry  to  present- 
day  periodicals.  The  Angler,  211. 

WALTON,  IZAAK.  Born  at  St.  Mary,  Stafford,  1593;  died  at  Winchester,  1683. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  Staffordshire  yeoman;  as  a  lad  he  was  apprenticed  in  Lon- 
don to  Thomas  Grinsell,  an  ironmonger.  When  a  young  man  he  set  himself  up 
in  a  humble  half-shop  in  Fleet  Street,  as  an  ironmonger.  The  traditional 
statement  that  he  was  a  draper  has  no  authentic  evidence  in  fact.  While  he 
was  at  Fleet  Street,  Dr.  Donne,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  and 
Dr.  Hales  of  Eton  were  among  his  friends.  The  friendship  of  these  men  of  higher 
station  attests  the  pleasingness  and  attractiveness  of  his  character.  In  1626  he 
married  Rachael  Floud  (or  Floyd)  at  St  Mildred's,  Canterbury.  All  seven  of 
his  children  by  her  died  in  infancy.  She  died  in  1640.  About  1646  he  married 
Anne,  daughter  of  Thomas  Ken,  and  half-sister  of  Bishop  Ken.  About  two 
years  later  his  daughter  Anne,  who  married  in  1678  William  Hawkins  of  Win- 
chester and  with  whom  Walton  spent  much  of  the  last  twenty  years  of  his 
life  was  born.  His  second  wife  died  in  1662.  His  son,  Izaak,  who  was  born 
in  1651,  lived  until  1719.  Walton  was  buried  in  Winchester  Cathedral  in 
the  north  transept.  The  "Father  of  Angling"  lived  in  very  troublesome  times, 
and  the  tide  was  so  strong  against  the  monarchy  even  as  early  as  1644  that  he 
sold  his  shop  in  Fleet  Street  in  that  year  and  retired  to  the  country.  While 
a  stanch  royalist  and  member  of  the  Anglican  Church,  he  was  very  tolerant  of 
others.  His  angling  classic  is  too  well  known  to  need  comment;  besides  this 
masterpiece  he  wrote  lives  of  Donne,  Wotton,  Hooker,  Herbert,  and  others. 
It  is  interesting  that  "The  Compleat  Angler"  was  issued  in  May,  1653,  just 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 323 

before  Cromwell  became  Lord  Protector  of  the  Commonwealth,  and  its  author 
must  have  been  peculiarly  detached  from  the  hatreds  of  his  age  and  serene 
in  temperament  to  have  written  it  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  greatest  conflicts 
England  ever  experienced.  The  Angler.  31;  The  Angler's  Wish,  226. 

WARD,  C.  N.    Angling  Reveries,  233. 

WARING,  CARL.     The  Trout  Brook,  107. 

WESTWOOD,  THOMAS.  Born  in  England,  1816;  died  at  Brussels,  1888.  Charles 
Lamb  taught  him  his  Latin,  and  gave  him  free  use  of  his  library  when  West- 
wood  was  a  child.  At  30  he  was  appointed  secretary  and  afterwards  director 
of  an  Anglo- Belgian  railroad  company,  and  thenceforth  spent  most  of  his  life 
in  Belgium,  where  he  owned  a  large  estate  on  which  was  a  river  with  12  miles 
of  excellent  fishing.  He  had  an  intimate  correspondence  with  many  of  the  lead- 
ing literary  figures  of  his  time,  especially  Mrs.  Browning.  Besides  being  an 
ardent  angler,  he  made  a  distinct  contribution  to  angling  literature  in  his 
"Bibliotheca  Piscatoria,  a  general  catalogue  of  angling  and  fishing  literature." 
He  also  wrote  a  bibliographical  record  of  the  various  phases  and  mutations  of 
"The  Compleat  Angler."  A  Lay  of  the  Lea,  244;  1  he  Trout  Fisher's  Pleasures, 
289;  Walton's  "Compleat  Angler,"  236. 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF.  Born  at  Haverhill,  Mass.,  1807;  died  at 
Hampton  Falls,  N.  H.,  1892.  Of  Quaker  ancestry;  edited  several  magazines; 
ardent  opponent  of  slavery.  The  Fishermen,  210. 

WIBORN,  J.  AUBURN.    The  Angler's  Prayer,  294. 

WILBUR,  CONSTANCE  FASSETT.     Fishin',  254. 

WILCOX,  ELLA  WHEELER.  Born  at  Johnston  Centre,  Wis.,  1855;  died 
at  her  home  in  Connecticut,  1919.  Educated  at  the  University  of  Wisconsin; 
writer  of  a  great  deal  of  popular  poetry.  Fishing,  46. 

WILLIS,  ELSIE  D.    Castin',  174. 

WOLCOT,  JOHN.  Born  near  Kingsbridge,  Devonshire,  Eng.,  1738;  died  at  Lon- 
don, 1819.  Physician,  satirist,  and  poet.  To  a  Fish  of  the  Brook,  80. 

WOODRUFF,  PAUL  H.    When  You,  50. 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM.  Born  at  Cockermouth,  Cumberland,  Eng.,  1770; 
died  at  Rydal  Mount,  1850.  Friend  of  Coleridge;  poet  of  nature;  became  poet 
laureate,  1843.  Written  upon  a  Blank  Leaf  in  "The  Compleat  Angler,"  157. 

WOTTON,  SIR  HENRY.  Born  at  Bocton  Malherbe,  Kent,  Eng.,  1568;  died  at 
Eton,  1639.  Diplomatist  and  miscellaneous  writer.  On  a  Bank  As  I  Sate 
A-Fishing,  206. 


STREAMS  MENTIONED  IN  THE  POEMS 

AIL.    A  minor  river  of  Scotland. 

ALPHEUS.     Principal  river  of  the  Peloponnesus,  Greece,  arising  in  Arcadia  and 

emptying  into  the  Ionian  Sea.    Same  as  the  modern  Rufia.    Some  parts  of  its 

course  are  underground. 
AVON.     Avon  is  a  very  common  designation  for  rivers  in  Great  Britain,  there 

being  four  rivers  in  England  and  three  in  Scotland  by  that  name. 

BRANDYWINE.    A  creek  on  the  eastern  edge  of  Greenfield,  Indiana. 
BRULE.    A  short  river  in  northeastern  Minnesota,  flowing  into  Lake  Superior. 

COQUET.    A  river  in  Northumberland,  England,  flowing  into  the  North  Sea. 

ETTRICK.    A  river  of  Scotland,  32  miles  long,  joining  the  Tweed  near  Selkirk. 

EUROTAS.  Chief  river  in  Laconia,  Greece,  arising  in  Mount  Boreum  and  flow- 
ing into  the  Laconian  Gulf.  Same  as  modern  Iri  or  Iris.  It  is  about  45  miles 
long. 

GALA.    A  river  of  Scotland,  a  tributary  of  the  Tweed. 

KALE.    A  small  river  in  Roxburghshire,  Scotland,  flowing  into  the  Teviot. 
KANKAKEE.     A  river  in  northwestern   Indiana  and  eastern  Illinois,  uniting 

with  the  Des  Plaines  to  form  the  Illinois  River. 
KEN.    A  river  of  Scotland,  connected  with  the  Dee. 

LEA  (LEE).    A  river  in  England,  uniting  with  the  Thames  near  the  Isle  of  Dogs, 

London. 
LEVEN.    A  river  in  Fife,  Scotland,  issuing  from  the  southeast  of  Loch  Leven  and 

flowing  eastward  14  miles  into  the  Firth  of  Forth  at  the  town  of  Leven. 
LOIRE.    The  largest  river  of  France,  over  600  miles  long,  flowing  into  the  Bay 

of  Biscay. 
LYNE.    A  river  in  Peeblesshire,  Scotland,  a  tributary  of  the  Tweed. 

MANOR.    A  small  river  in  Peeblesshire,  Scotland. 

ST.  JOHN.    A  river  in  Maine  and  Canada,  emptying  into  the  Bay  of  Fundy. 
ST.  LAWRENCE.    One  of  the  principal  rivers  of  North  America,  the  outlet  of 

the  Great  Lakes. 
SEVERN.    A  river  in  England,  about  200  miles  long,  arising  in  Wales  and  emptying 

into  the  Bristol  Channel. 
SHAWFORD  BROOK.  A  small  stream  in  Staffordshire. 

TALLA.    A  minor  stream  in  Scotland. 

TEVIOT.    A  river  in  Scotland,  about  40  miles  long,  a  tributary  of  the  Tweed. 

THAMES.    The  largest  river  in  Great  Britain,  about  228  miles  long,  arising  near 

Cirencester  and  emptying  into  the  North  Sea. 
TRENT.    A  river  in  England,  about  170  miles  long,  arising  in  Straff ordshire  and 

uniting  with  the  Ouse  to  form  the  Humber. 
TWEED.    River  in  Scotland  and  on  the  boundary  between  Scotland  and  England, 

97  miles  long,  entering  the  North  Sea  at  Berwick. 

WANSBECK.   River  of  Northumberland,  England,  emptying  into  the  North  Sea 
WEAR.    River  in  Durham,  England,  flowing  into  the  North  Sea  at  Sunderland. 

324 


NOTES 

(Numbers  in  parentheses  refer  to  lines  of  the  poems) 

Page  26 — AT  BROAD  RIPPLE.  At  the  time  this  poem  was  written  Broad  Ripple 
was  a  very  small  town  on  the  banks  of  the  White  River  north  of  Indianapolis. 

Page  31 — THE  ANGLER.  (13)  Aurora,  goddess  of  the  dawn.  (34)  gentles,  mag- 
gots or  larvae  of  the  flesh-fly,  used  as  bait.  (40)  fray,  an  archaic  word  meaning 
frighten. 

page  33—THE  FISHERMAN'S  FEAST.     (37)  Chronos,  Time. 

Page  60— MY  BEST  KENTUCKY  REEL.  Grover  Cleveland  and  Joseph  Jeffer- 
son, the  famous  actor,  were  for  years  angling  companions. 

Page  66 — TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND.  (12)  rathe,  pertaining  to  the  early  part  of 
the  year  or  season. 

Page  68— THE  ANGLER'S  BALLAD.  The  last  four  stanzas  of  this  poem  refer 
to  definite  political  conditions.  Cotton,  as  a  royalist  and  conservative,  feared 
a  new  civil  war  in  England. 

Page  74 — COROMANDEL  FISHERS.  The  Coromandel  Coast  is  off  the  eastern 
side  of  the  Indian  Peninsula. 

Page  79— A  FISHERMAN  S  PETITION.  (1)  Ananias  was  a  Jewish  Christian 
who  was  struck  dead  for  fraud  and  lying. 

Page  83— TO  THE  IMMORTAL  MEMORY  OF  THE  HALIBUT  ON  WHICH 
I  DINED  THIS  DAY.  (15)  Batavia,  Holland.  (16)  Caledonia,  Scotland. 
(17)  Hibernia,  Ireland. 

Page  89— THE  ANGLER'S  CAROL.  (30)  stone,  a  weight,  formerly  of  varying 
amount,  now  legally  fourteen  pounds  in  Great  Britain.  (35)  "The  face,"  etc., 
the  fisherman's  usual  drinking  toast. 

Page  91 — THE  BAIT.  This  poem  is  an  answer  and  echo  to  Marlowe's  lyric 
"The  Shepherd  to  His  Love." 

Page  92— THE  SALMON  FLY.  (18)  Scotia,  Scotland.  (48)  Cathay's  rare  worm, 
the  silk-worm  of  China. 

Page   101— HAMPSHIRE   FLY-FISHING.      (11)   famous   "line,"  the  equator. 

Page  103— NORTH  COUNTRY  FLY-FISHING.  (1)  Southron,  Southerner, 
one  living  in  southern  England. 

Page  109— UP  AND  DOWN  OLD  BRANDYWINE.  (58)  Old  Irvin'  Hunt  and 
Aunt  Jane  Hunt  lived  in  a  little  cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  Brandywine. 
They  were  born  slaves  and  the  first  negroes  to  come  to  Greenfield.  This  old 
negro  was  such  a  good  fisherman  that  he  was  reputed  to  catch  fish  "where 
there  weren't  any." 

Page  113— THE  FIRST  FISHERMAN.  (8)  pre-Pelasgian,  before  the  Pelasgians, 
who  are  mentioned  by  classical  writers  as  the  primitive  dwellers  in  Greece  and 
the  eastern  islands  of  the  Mediterranean.  (12)  mesozoic,  one  of  the  grand 
divisions  of  geological  history  between  the  paleozoic  and  the  cenozoic,  char- 
acterized by  the  spread  of  reptiles.  (17)  Ananias,  see  note  for  page  79. 

Page  119— THE  WAYS  OF  THE  FISHERMAN.  (2)  engines,  devices,  inven- 
tions. 

Page  121— THE  INVITATION.  Tom  Hughes,  the  author  of  "Tom  Brown's 
School-Days"  and  "Tom  Brown  at  Oxford."  (7)  Snowdon,  a  mountain  in 
Carnarvonshire,  Wales,  the  highest  mountain  in  England  or  Wales,  and  noted 
for  its  grand  view.  (15)  Siabod,  a  mountain  in  Wales. 

Page  124— THE  WICKED  FISHERMAN.  To  a  Fellow-Angler,  G.  M.  M.  These 
verses  were  written  in  the  woods  near  Ashland,  Wisconsin,  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing when  Mr.  Browne  was  laid  up  with  a  broken  .ankle,  and  were  addressed 
to  George  M.  Millard,  his  fishing  companion.  (2)  Funday,  an  inlet,  about 
140  miles  long  and  from  30  to  50  miles  wide,  on  the  Atlantic  coast  between 
New  Brunswick  and  Nova  Scotia,  the  tides  of  which  reach  the  enormous  height 
of  from  60  to  70  feet.  (6)  Dundee,  an  old  tune  of  the  Scottish  Psalter.  (10) 

325 


326  NOTES 


Mrs.  Grundy,  one  of  two  farmers'  wives  in  Morton's  comedy  "Speed  the 
Plough,"  who  has  bec9me  the  personification  of  conventional  propriety  from 
the  frequent  question  in  the  play,  "What  will  Mrs.  Grundy  say?" 

Page  126— WHEN  TULIPS  BLOOM.  (1)  Union  Square,  a  park  in  New  York 
City  at  Fourteenth  Street  and  Fourth  Avenue. 

Page  128— APRIL  ON  TWEED.  (7)  Eildon  Hill,  in  Roxburghshire,  Scotland, 
near  Melrose,  famous  in  Scottish  legend. 

Page  146— THE  ANGLER'S  DELECTATION.  (23-24)  Aurora  (Eos),  goddess 
of  the  dawn,  was  the  beloved  of  "old  Tithonus,"  who  was  granted  immortality 
but  not  eternal  youth,  and  in  hiSj  extreme  age  he  withered  away  and  was 
changed  into  a  grasshopper. 

Page  150— THE  ANGLER'S  FAREWELL.  "Resigned,  I  kissed  the  rod,"  a 
line  from  Pope,  which  Hood  takes  in  an  entirely  different  meaning  from  Pope's. 
(3)  chine,  backbone.  (10)  The  pun  rests  on  the  meaning  of  gentle  as  a  mag- 
got used  as  bait  and  a  person  of  high  birth  or  rank,  and  simple  as  meaning 
foolish  and  also  a  person  of  humble  birth  or  position,  subservient  to  the 
"gentles."  (15)  thinnish,  few  or  scarce.  (21)  brandling,  a  small  dunghill 
earthworm  used  as  bait.  (24-25)  Council  of  Nice  and  Diet  of  Worms,  famous 
events  in  religious  history.  (30)  Jack  Ketch,  a  well-known  English  hangman. 
(40)  "Carpe  diem"  means  literally  "seize  the  day,"  "take  your  pleasures  while 
you  can."  Hood  makes  it  mean  "carp  day".  (45)  Ottery  St.  Mary  is  a  small 
town  in  Devonshire,  England.  Otters  are  enemies  of  fish. 

Page  161— THE  SALMON  RUN.  (37)  sweel,  the  provincial  or  dialectal  form 
of  squeal,  sound  shrilly. 

Page  164— THE  HOLY-WELL  POOL.  (33)  cushat,  the  ringdove,  or  wood 
pigeon,  of  Europe. 

Page  186— ON  ETTRICK  FOREST'S  MOUNTAINS  DUN.  (1)  Ettrick  Forest, 
a  tract  of  woodland  along  the  Ettrick  River.  (21)  scaur,  an  isolated  or  pro- 
jecting rock.  (27)  Alwyn  was  the  seat  of  Lord  Somerville  (died  1819),  who, 
at  the  time  this  poem  was  written,  was  Scott's  nearest  neighbor  and  intimate 
friend.  (28)  Ashestiel  was  the  best-known  of  Scott's  homes  before  he  bought 
Abbotsford.  (30)  bicker,  move  quickly  and  unsteadily,  as  a  flame. 

Page  194— THE  FISHERMAN.  (7)  fraught,  obsolete  or  Scottish  form  of  freight, 
load.  (11)  sallies,  willows.  (27)  weels,  a  weel  was  a  kind  of  trap  or  snare 
for  fish. 

Page  205— FISHING  SONG.     (17)  poteen,  illicitly  distilled  whisky. 

Page  206 — ON  A  BANK  AS  I  SATE  A-FISHING.  (4)  "Birds  had  drawn  their 
valentines"  refers  to  an  old  notion  that  birds  chose  their  mates  on  St.  Valen- 
tine's Day  (February  14th),  as  can  be  seen  from  these  lines  from  Chaucer's 
Parliament  of  Fowls:  "For  this  was  on  seynt  Valentines  day,  whan  every 
brid  (bird)  cometh  ther  to  chese  (choose)  his  make  (mate)."  (10)  Pilgrim,  the 
peregrine  falcon.  (12)  Philomel,  the  nightingale.  (18)  syllabub,  a  drink 
of  milk  (often  as  drawn  from  the  cow  "strokes")  curdled  by  the  admixture 
of  wine,  cider,  or  the  like,  and  often  sweetened. 

Page  212— THE  UNATTAINABLE.  (17)  Ulysses,  in  Greek  legend,  a  king  of 
Ithaca  and  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Trojan  war,  was  noted  for  his  resource- 
fulness and  craftiness;  Didymus,  a  surname  of  the  apostle  Thomas  "doubt- 
ing Thomas." 

Page  214— THE  FISHER'S  WELCOME.  (1)  twa,  two;  hae,  have;  sae,  so.  (7) 
taegither,  together.  (10)  bonny  braes,  pretty  banks.  (11)  brither,  brother; 
gane,  gone.  (12)  claes,  clothes.  (13)  maun,  must;  the  lave,  the  rest,  the  others. 
(14)  heuchs,  hooks;  a',  all.  (17)  baith,  both.  (18)  pows,  heads.  (19) 
graith,  gear,  equipment.  (20)  knowes,  mounds,  hillocks.  (22)  thraw, 
throw.  (25)  Cheviot,  the  highest  peak  of  a  range  of  mountains  in  Northumber- 
land, England,  and  Roxburghshire,  Scotland.  (28)  gang,  go.  (29)  busk,  make 
ready,  prepare.  (30)  we're  fidgin'  a'  fu'  fain,  we  are  very  restless  with  eager- 
ness. (32)  ance,  once.  (34)  nicht  begins  to  fa',  night  begins  to  fall.  (35)  ilka 
chiel,  every  child,  fellow;  crack,  joke.  (37)  toomed,  poured;  cqggens,  cups. 
(38)  loof,  palm  of  the  hand.  (39)  gude,  good.  (43)  ged,  pike;  saumon, 
salmon.  (45)  gar  the  callants,  make  the  boys,  lads. 

Page  216— THE  YELLOW  FINS  O'  YARROW.  (2)  kenna,  do  not  know;  gane 
tae,  gone  to.  (3)  troots,  trouts.  (4)  sae,  so.  (5)  baith  gowd  and  spanglit, 


NOTES  327 


both  gold  and  spangled.  (6)  walth,  wealth;  amang,  among.  (8)  laith,  loath; 
wrang,  wrong.  (10)  maun,  must;  wauken,  waken,  (ll^frae,  from.  (13)  ilka, 
each,  every;  stane,  stone.  (15)  lane,  lone.  (16)  ane,  one;  wad  hae  kenn'd, 
would  have  known.  (17)  waes,  woe  is.  (19)  rin,  run. 

Page  223— THE  BONNY  TWEED  FOR  ME!  U)  e'e,  eye;  frae,  from.  (2)  lo'es, 
loves.  (3)  a',  all;  ken,  know.  (5)  gowan,  daisy;  brae,  bank,  slope.  (6)  deed, 
clad;  slae,  sloe,  blackthorn.  (7)  baith,  both.  (9)  fit,  foot,  step.  (10)  thrang, 
busy.  (11)  laverocks,  larks;  toorin',  towering.  (13)  sang,  song;  mak's  his 
wark  nae  toil,  makes  his  work  no  toil.  (14)  coulter,  cutter  on  a  plow.  (15) 
craw-schule,  crow-school.  (17)  joukin,  dodging,  ducking;  saft,  soft.  (21) 
bluid,  blood.  (22)  stanes,  stones.  (24)  wha  wadna,  who  would  not;  sic,  such. 
(25)  sae  sune,  so  soon.  (28)  laith,  loath. 

Page  226— THE  ANGLER'S  WISH.  (11)  Kenna  is  evidently  the  feminine  for- 
mation of  Ken,  the  maiden  name  of  Walton's  second  wife,  the  half-sister  of 
Bishop  Ken.  The  marginal  note  gives  the  song  as  "Like  Hermit  Poor,"  a  very 
celebrated  one  in  Walton's  time,  set  to  music  by  Nicholas  Laneare,  an  eminent 
schoolmaster.  (13)  laverock,  lark.  (19)  Bryan  has  never  been  satisfactorily 
explained.  An  early  editor  gives  the  ambiguous  note  ' 'A  Friend  of  the  Author, ' ' 
but  Moses  Browne,  in  his  edition  of  "The  Compleat  Angler"  suggests  that  it 
refers  to  his  favorite  dog. 

Page  227— WORM-FISHING.    (6)  croke  (crook),  hook.    (18)  hyde,  hiding  place. 

Page  228— THE  BONNIE  TWEED.  (1)  ither,  other;  ain,  own.  (3)  nane,  none. 
(4)  gie,  give;  bonnie,  lovely.  (5)  burn,  brook,  creek.  (7)  ilka,  every.  (8)  sae 
saftly,  so  softly.  (9)  lanesome,  lonesome.  (12)  frae,  from.  (14)  mony, 
many.  (16)  amang  the  braes,  among  the  banks,  slopes.  (17)  abune,  above; 
Crook,  a  small  inn,  on  the  post-road  from  Edinburgh  to  Dumfries,  a  favorite 
haunt  for  anglers —  the  head-waters  of  the  Tweed  affording  fine  trout-fishing 
in  the  neighborhood.  (18)  stane,  stone;  aneath,  below.  (19)  drumlie,  turbid, 
muddy.  (20)  daunders,  meanders.  (22)  a'  gleamin'  ower  wi'  starn  an'  bead, 
all  gleaming  over  with  stars  and  bead.  (23)  sawmon  sooms,  salmon  swims. 
(24)  bields,  shelters.  (26)  canna  hae,  cannot  have.  (27)  gin,  if.  (28)  whins, 
furze,  gorse.  (30)  birzy,  bristly;  reid,  red.  (36;  troots  are  soomin'  ilka  where, 
trouts  are  swimming  everywhere. 

Page  230— THE  TROUT.  (8)  Biscay,  the  part  of  the  Atlantic  west  of  France  and 
north  of  Spain,  noted  for  its  storms. 

Page  236— WALTON'S  "COMPLEAT  ANGLER."  (7-9)  The  original  edition 
of  Walton's  "The  Compleat  Angler,"  issued  in  1653,  contains  these  words: 
"London,  Printed  by  T.  Maxey  for  Richard  Marriot  in  S.  Dunstan's  Church- 
yard, Fleet  Street." 

Page  240— THE  BLUEFISH.  (19)  menhaden,  a  marine  fish,  extremely  plentiful 
but  worthless  as  food,  used  as  bait  or  for  making  oil  and  fertilizer.  (36)  dorado, 
a  variety  of  dolphin. 

Page  244— A  LAY  OF  THE  LEA.  (2)  pow,  head.  (13)  Enfield  Meadows,  in 
Middlesex,  England,  near  London.  (30)  Cerberus,  allusion  to  the  three- 
headed  watch-dog  of  Greek  mythology,  stationed  at  the  entrance  of  the  in- 
fernal regions. 

Page  249 — THAT  TROUT.  (16)  Kohinoor,  one  of  the  largest  diamonds  in  the 
world,  acquired  by  Queen  Victoria  in  1850. 

Page  253— THE  ANGLER.  (16)  Pan,  god  of  pastures,  forests,  and  flocks,  and 
inventor  of  the  syrinx,  or  shepherd's  flute. 

Page  255— THE  SALMON  FISHERMAN.  (5)  Neptune,  god  of  the  sea.  (23} 
Caliban,  the  deformed  and  repulsive  slave  in  Shakespeare's  "The  Tempest," 
typifying  the  base  and  sensual  in  nature. 

Page  262— TO  MY  DEAR  AND  MOST  WORTHY  FRIEND,  MR.  IZAAK 
WALTON.  Walton  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  Cotton's  "little  fishing  house" 
on  the  Dove  River,  a  tributary  of  the  Trent. 

Page  263— TO  MY  DEAR  BROTHER  IZAAK  WALTON.  (1)  Erasmus,  a 
famous  Dutch  classical  and  theological  scholar,  born  at  Rotterdam  in  1465 
and  died  at  Basel,  Switzerland,  in  1536.  His '"Colloquies"  are  among  the 
best  known  of  his  works. 

Page  264— THE  LAST  CAST.  (12)  Urigil,  a  lake  in  northwestern  Scotland; 
Lochinvar  (Lochinver),  village  in  Sutherland,  Scotland,  at  the  head  of  Loch 


328  NOTES 


Inver.  (14)  Ari  limes  (Arienas),  a  small  inland  sheet  of  water  in  Morvern, 
Argyleshire.  (24)  Dian,  Diana,  goddess  of  the  moon,  represented  as  a  huntress; 
drave,  drove.  (28)  yellow  stream,  the  Tiber  River.  (32)  Yair,  on  the  Tweed, 
between  Selkirk  and  Galashiels,  at  which  a  bridge  crosses  the  river.  (34) 
Loch  Assynt,  a  lake,  seven  miles  long,  in  the  southwestern  part  of  Sutherland, 
Scotland,  famous  for  its  picturesqueness.  (52)  latest  Minstrel,  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  who  died  at  his  home  Abbottsford  on  the  river  Tweed. 

Page  266— VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER.  The  occasion  for  these  lines  was 
the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  dinner  of  1844. 

Page  270— WATCHING  THE  MINNOWS.    (7)  sallows,  willows. 

Page  281— BALLADE  OF  THE  FALSE  AND  THE  TRUE.  (20)  Bacchus,  the 
god  of  wine,  who  was  "slain"  by  the  Prohibition  Amendment. 

Page  287— FATE  OF  THE  FATUOUS  FISHERMAN.  (20)  Cook,  Dr.  Frederick 
Albert  Cook,  who  maintained  that  he  reached  the  North  Pole  on  April  21, 
1908,  a  claim  quickly  disproved.  (49)  Jupiter,  the  supreme  deity  among  the 
Romans,  here  identified  with  the  Egyptian  deity  Amun  (Ammon). 

Page  292— THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN.  (12)  Leander,  in  Greek 
legend,  a  youth  of  Abydos,  who  swam  the  Hellespont  (Strait  of  the 
Dardanelles)  each  night  to  visit  Hero.  He  perished  one  stormy  night  when  the 
light  in  the  tower  by  which  he  was  guided  was  extinguished,  and  Hero,  when 
she  saw  his  body  washed  ashore,  threw  herself  from  the  tower  and  was  killed. 

Page  305 — SALMON  OF  LABRADOR.  (3)  Mingan  Isles,  in  the  St.  Lawrence,  off 
the  Province  of  Quebec.  (4)  Anticosti,  an  island,  about  135  miles  long, 
in  the  St.  Lawrence  River.  (11)  Belle-Isle,  a  small  island  in  Conception  Bay, 
Newfoundland. 

Page  307— PROTEST  OF  THE  BROOK  TROUT.  (6)  Undine,  perhaps  no  ref- 
erence is  here  intended  to  the  Undine  of  Fouque's  tale,  in  which  she  is  a  water 
spirit  endowed  with  a  soul  by  her  marriage  to  a  mortal. 

Page  314 — THE  FISHING- PARTY.  (4)  Hanch's  Woods,  a  popular  picnic 
ground  on  the  White  River  when  Mr.  Riley  first  went  to  Indianapolis. 


POETRY  FOR  THE  ANGLER'S  LIBRARY 

An  Angler's  Garland:  Eric  Parker. 

Angling  Sports:  Moses  Browne. 

Angling  Songs:  Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 

Fisherman's  Verse:  Williams  Haynes  &  Joseph  Leroy  Harrison. 

Forest  Runes:  George  W.  Sears. 

Green  Days  and  Blue  Days:  Patrick  Chalmers. 

Gun  and  Rod:  Ernest  McGaffey. 

Lyra  Piscatoria:  Cotswold  Isys. 

Musa  Piscatrix:  John  Buchan. 

Out-Doors:  Ernest  McGaffey. 

Piscatory  Eclogues:  Phineas  Fletcher. 

Poems  of  Rural  Life:  William  Barnes. 

Rod  and  Gun:  Isaac  McLellan. 

Secrets  of  Angling:  John  Dennys. 

Songs  on  Angling:  W.  A.  Foster. 

The  Compleat  Angler:  Izaak  Walton. 

The  Coquet-dale  Fishing  Songs:  Thomas  Doubleday. 

MAGAZINES  FOR  HIS  LIBRARY  TABLE 

FIELD  AND  STREAM:  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City. 

In  January  1922  this  magazine  took  over  "The  American  Angler,"  the  only 
magazine  in  America  devoted  entirely  to  fishing.  "Field  and  Stream"  has  always 
been  a  magazine  of  especial  appeal  to  fishermen,  and  by  this  amalgamation  it  will 
be  almost  essential  to  any  person  wishing  comprehensive  news  of  the  Waltonian 
art.  It  will  aim  to  use  in  its  columns  articles  by  the  best  fishing  writers  who  will 
be  authoritative  as  well  as  interesting.  "Field  and  Stream"  has  always  been  a 
champion  of  true  sportsmanship  in  angling,  and  will  wage  its  fight  in  the  future 
as  in  the  past  against  the  pollution  of  streams  and  the  reckless  destruction  of  fish. 

FOREST  AND  STREAM:  9  East  40th  Street,  New  York  City. 

The  object  of  "Forest  and  Stream"  is  to  studiously  promote  a  healthful  in- 
terest in  outdoor  recreation,  and  to  cultivate  a  refined  taste  for  natural  objects.  It 
contains  in  each  number  several  articles  of  a  constructive  and  practical- nature  per- 
taining to  fish  and  fishing.  "Forest  and  Stream"  was  founded  in  1873  and  is  the 
oldest  magazine  of  its  kind  and  a  recognized  outdoor  authority  in  America. 

NATIONAL  SPORTSMAN  MAGAZINE:  275  Newbury  Street,  Boston. 

An  illustrated  magazine  devoted  to  the  interests  of  all  out-door  sports.  Be- 
sides monthly  articles  on  hunting  and  fishing,  it  has  special  departments  of  Camp- 
Fire  Talks,  Firearms  and  Ammunition,  Fur  and  Trapping,  and  the  Junior  Camp. 

OUTDOOR  LIFE:  1824  Curtis  Street,  Denver,  Colorado. 

"A  Sportsman's  Magazine  of  the  West"  accurately  gives  the  field  of  this  maga- 
zine. Excellent  articles  on  big  game  hunting  and  angling  in  the  West.  Its  special 
departments  offer  practical  information  to  meet  the  sportsman's  needs. 

329 


330  MAGAZINES  FOR  HIS  LIBRARY  TABLE 

OUTERS'-RECREATION:  500  North  Dearborn  Street,  Chicago. 

Its  subtitle  "The  Magazine  that  brings  the  Outdoors  in"  well  expresses  the 
extensive  appeal  of  this  magazine.  Its  monthly  articles  on  fishing,  hunting,  camp- 
ing, auto-camping,  and  the  like  by  leading  sport  writers  meet  the  needs  of  all  lovers 
of  the  out-of-doors.  Profusely  illustrated  with  pictures  full  of  human  interest.  Its 
special  departments  are  practical  and  instructive. 

OUTING  MAGAZINE:  47  West  47th  Street,  New  York  City. 

The  editorial  policy  of  "Outing"  is  a  comprehensive  one  covering  the  entire 
outdoor  field  but  special  attention  has  been  paid  to  fishing  and  the  interesting, 
humorous  experiences  of  fishermen.  Features  of  practically  every  issue  are  fish- 
ing stories  based  on  actual  experiences  and  told  with  the  charm,  hopefulness  and 
mendacity  of  the  fisherman's  art.  A  prime  condition  of  all  stories  is  that  they  shall 
be  told  well  and  somewhat  out  of  the  ordinary. 

ROD  AND  GUN  IN  CANADA:  pub,  by  W.  J.  Taylor,  Ltd.,  Woodstock,  Ontario. 

While  this  periodical  is  devoted  to  all  branches  of  outdoor  sport,  fishing,  shoot- 
ing, etc.,  it  has  an  especial  appeal  to  the  Waltonian  as  it  contains  stories  and  articles 
each  month  dealing  with  angling  in  the  various  waters  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific.  The  tourist  fisherman  contemplating  a  trip  to  any  part  of  the  Dominion 
will  be  given  advice  on  his  prospects  through  the  columns  of  the  magazine  and  the 
angling  editor.  The  waters  of  Canada  are  as  yet  unspoiled  and  the  fisherman's 
paradise  is  given  suitable  publicity  by  "Rod  and  Gun  in  Canada,"  the  Dominion's 
national  sportsman's  monthly. 


Amusing  and  Clever 


STEWART  KIDD 


PUBLISHERS 


Curiosities  of  Matrimony 

By  David  Ainsworth 
with  illustrations  by  William  J.  Moll 


\yfOST  of  us,  whether  we  be  married 
•^•*-  or  single,  are  apt  to  regard  quite 
seriously  the  Hymeneal  tether — as  no 
doubt  we  should.  There  are,  neverthe- 
less, many  amusing  circumstances  cen- 
tered round  and  about  the  marriage  insti- 
tution; wits  and  versifiers  of  all  times 
have  indulged  in  sly  digs  at  its  expense. 
Surely  no  one  will  grudge  us  a  quiet  smile. 

Here  is  a  compilation  of  curious  and  in- 
teresting facts  concerning  matrimony, 
together  with  a  collection  of  verses  written 
apropos  of  weddings  which  have  occurred 
during  the  last  hundred  years. 

To  some  of  us  Curiosities  of  Matrimony 
will  doubtless  prove  instructive:  few  of 
us  will  fail  to  be  both  interested  and 
amused. 

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STEWART  KIDD    -l^a     PUBLISHERS 


SCRAMBLED  EGGS 

Cooked  by  Lawton  Mackall 

Garnished    with    illustrations 
by  Oliver  Herford 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  quackle  and  cackle 
in  the  world  just  now  which  might  sound  bet- 
ter in  the  mouths  of  ducks  and  chickens.  So 
Lawton  Mackall  has  put  it  there.  Although 
the  author  of  "  Scrambled  Eggs  "would  wince 
at  the  accusation  of  serious  purpose,  he  has 
scratched  below  the  surface  in  more  than  one 
paragraph  and  unearthed  an  appetizing 
morsel  of  moral  and  manner.  Our  whole 
modern  flock  is  there,  in  this  biting  barnyard 
burlesque;  Gertrude,  the  duckess,  who  thinks 
that  wives  should  be  the  intellectual  equals 
of  their  husbands,  and  believes  in  communal 
incubators;  Martha,  a  plain  hen,  who  thinks 
that  woman's  sphere  is  the  egg;  and  Eustace, 
who  cannot  resist  the  the  r61e  of  martyr,  and 
leaps  needlessly  into  the  maws  of  a  mowing 
machine. 

"  Swift  and  sure  and  extremely  funny." 
— New  York  Evening  Sun. 

"Its  wit  comes  in  unexpected  flashes 
and  its  humor  is  continuous." — Louis- 
ville Courier- Journal. 

Six  full-page  illustrations  by 
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STEWART  KIDD    IS!!*     PUBLISHERS 


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The  one  who  can  propose  the  best  Conundrum. 
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ings: Wilderness  Handicraft. — Outfitting  for  Go-Light 
Trips. — Motor  Camping. — Practical  Mountaineering. — 
Hints  on  Desert  Travel. — The  Camp  Cuisine. — Using 
the  Reflecting  Baker. — Tents  and  How  to  Use  Them. 
— Tent  Making  at  Home. — Tips  on  Teepees. — Utilizing 
Balloon  Silk  in  Camp. — Making  the  Recreation  Cabin. — 
Taking  the  Place  of  the  Doctor. — Uses  of  Adhesive 
Plaster  in  Camp. — Pests  of  the  Wilderness. — The  In- 
dispensable Parka. — Game  Hunting  with  a  Camera. — 
Photographic  Developing  in  Camp. — Leather  Working 
for  the  Outdoor  Man.  Numerous  illustrations  and  prac- 
tical how-to-make  diagrams,  l^mo,  silk  cloth.  Net.  $1.50. 

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America's  Qreatest  Publisher  of  Outdoor 
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Only  Complete  Book  on  the  American  Pike 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE  PIKE 

By  0.  W.  Smith,  Fishing  Editor  of  Outdoor  Life 
For  years  Mr.  Smith  has  studied  fish  and  fishing  at  the 
laboratory  table,  in  libraries,  and  by  lake  and  stream. 
He  writes  from  a  vast  experience,  and  gives  the  ac- 
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fund  of  natural  history  and  scientific  information,  there 
are  many  amusing  anecdotes.  The  Chapters:  By  Way 
of  Introduction. — Literature  and  History. — Description 
of  the  American  Pikes. — The  Little  Pickerels. — Casting 
for  Great  Pike  with  Artificial  Lures. — Great  Pike  and 
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with  Live  Bait.  Illustrated,  izmo.  Silk  cloth.  $3.00. 

THE  FLY-FISHER'S  ENTOMOLOGY 

By  Alfred  Ronalds.  Edited  by  H.  T.  Sheringham. 
A  new  edition,  with  colored  representations  of  natural 
and  artificial  insects,  and  a  few  observations  and  instruc- 
tions on  trout  and  grayling  fishing.  It  was  not  till 
Alfred  Ronalds  produced  "The  Fly-Fisher's  Entomology" 
in  1836  that  anglers  had  something  that  could  be  ac- 
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four  years  have  elapsed  since  it  came  out.  Handsomely 
illustrated  with  20  full-page  color  plates  and  14  black- 
and-whites.  8vo.  Net,  $5.00. 

DAYS  AND  NIGHTS  OF  SALMON 
FISHING  IN  THE  TWEED 

By  William  Scrope.     Edited  with  an  introduction  by 

H.  T.  Sheringham. 

The  way  of  a  palmon  with  the  fly  in  1921  is  just  what  it 
was  in  1842.  Mr.  Sheringham  has  brought  Scrope's  mas- 
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edition  of  the  great  classic.  Handsomely  illustrated  with 
many  color  plates  and  black-and-whites.  8vo.  Net,  $5.00. 


Stewart  Kidd  ZTiH&ili 


America's  Qreatest  Publisher  of  Outdoor 
Books   offers   you   these   interesting   Titles 

THE  BIG  MUSKEG 

By  Victor  Rousseau 

Romance  and  tragedy  stalk  hand  in  hand  through  the 
grim  reaches  of  the  North.  And  love  and  the  passions 
of  revenge  and  hate  flame  just  as  darkly  bright  over  the 
eternal  snows  as  in  tropic  islands  under  the  moon. 
Boston  Evening  Transcript:  "The  story  moves  rapidly 
from  thrill  to  thrill."  i2tno.  Silk  cloth.  Net,  $2.00. 

JIST  HUNTIN' 

By  Ozark  Ripley 

Introduction  by  Dixie  Carroll 

Tales  of  Forest,  Field,  and  Stream  delightfully  told  by 

an  expert  guide  who  has  fished  and  hunted  from  Northern 

Alaska  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.     Illustrated.     8vo.     Silk 

cloth.     Net,  $2.00. 

REMINISCENT  TALES  OF  A 
HUMBLE  ANGLER 

By  Dr.  Frank  M.  Johnson 

Introduction  by  Dr.  James  A.  Henshall 

Short  sketches  of  the  author's  experiences  during  the 

vacation  days  of  half  a  century  in  his  Quest  of  the  Fish 

from  Newfoundland  to  the  Everglades  and  on  toward 

the  Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun.     i6mo.    Silk  cloth.    Net, 

$1.50. 

FISHING  WITH  A  BOY 

The  Tale  of  a  Rejuvenation 

By  Leonard  Hulit 

Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle:    "Any  boy  who  loves  fishing,  be 

he  twelve  years  old  or  five  times  that  number,  will  revel 

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fishes."      Illustrated.      i2mo.      Silk   doth.     Net,    $2.00. 

PIGEON  RAISING 

By  Alice  Macleod 

This  is  a  book  for  both  fancier  and  market-breeder.  Full 
descriptions  of  the  construction  of  houses,  the  care  of 
the  birds,  preparation  for  market  and  shipment,  the 
various  breeds,  their  markings,  habits,  etc.,  etc.  i6mo. 
Cloth.  Net,  $1.50. 

Stewart  Kidd  £r»bci:Jr,i 


YC   14269 


